Final Riddles
by Intricacy
Summary: When you cast an Unforgivable, you have to mean it. Feel it, breathe it... and Ginevra, I'm still alive. GWTR - A time travel story.
1. Prologue: Colors

Final Riddles

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter.

**FIRST THINGS FIRST:**Sorry so much about the delayed update! Waaaaaah! This chapter would've come out several weeks ago if it weren't for my procrastination and those darn AP's. But thank you to_everyone_ who dropped off a review, especially **Ra'iira The Fiend** for being especially motivating for me to get this chapter done through a bajillion reviews (thank yous! –hugs-), who I will decide to dedicate this chapter to. xD

And aye, thank you billions to my awesome betas, **Daughter of the Black** and **SylphJr**! I would give both of you a winning lottery ticket if I could, but unfortunately, I've been down on my luck lately.

I'll also try to be more responsive in review replies this time around. xD Just a word of precaution, updates probably won't come for another month or so due to this being the testing period. X.x

Oh, in case you haven't noticed – I'm rewriting this thing again!

This is my what, second, third rewrite? I think second rewrite, third version. Hopefully it's better than the previous two, but I just came up with some insane plot twist, too lazy to turn it into a whole new story, so I combined FR and that plot twist. xD Ahahaha. I make no sense.

This version was also prompted by a belated discovery that Ginny's miraculous recovery from half-dead to alive was a little _too_ miraculous, even with magic involved. So yeah. Besides this first chapter, not_too_ much should be changed – but the writing style should be significantly darker, and Ginny a little less tangled into society.

Now onto the story. Enjoy (or not) and review regardless!

_Reformatted: May 08 2011_

_Check my profile for status updates :D_

* * *

**Prologue: Color**

Black.

Like the color of the inside of your eyelids when you try to go to sleep during a new moon, she had decided long ago when imagery was still vividly implemented into her lifestyle. But now – even if she could – she did not want to see past the cloying, dark mist, as some sixth sense foreboded that the sight was not one better than inhuman misery. No, no, not sixth sense. Common sense. Common sense declared the present ghastly, because what she was living wasn't much better.

There's a threshold to how much pain a person can suffer before they break from human to machine, and then from machine to grave. For countless unending nights, Ginny Weasley had been teetering on that border between death and routine – routine, as no God would have defined "life" to be such a hungry scavenge. To be desperate. To be so far past the ghost of intelligence's recollections that the mind can only process one thought at a time, and one thought stays predominant among the rest: food.

During those wavering moments when that foremost thought shines dull, she wondered briefly if she was insane to continue life this way. If it wouldn't be better to be dead, like she's sure her family already was. But those few flickers of brilliance, of stupidity, of _hopeless failure_ were immediately forgotten as the next roll of hunger thundered through her body, and she could barely ask herself what the word "family" meant before her only care was to satisfy her stomach again.

In a near-unconscious stupor, she stumbled over nothing, her arms weakly flailing out. Her hand clasped onto something cool and smooth – and God, did the thing just _pulse_ within her fist? – before she hit the ground, hearing only the shatter of glass and a breath of a cry before she lost control and slipped past the second threshold that distinguished routine from death.

…

White.

Like the color of wincing brightness, an unyielding, blinding stream. It seared; it hurt; it refused to dim. Immediately, she squeezed her eyes shut again, but it did little good. It's still there, behind the black that she'd grown to be accustomed to. Omniscient. And – oddly – the first thing that comes to mind wasn't the question of food, but _where_ in the world did such brilliance come from? Because it was too vivid to be natural.

So it couldn't be real. It couldn't be.

Was she dead? If so, heaven wasn't supposed to burn so much, was it? But she couldn't be in hell. Only her eyes were searing.

A shadow briefly passed over the blinding whiteness, and she immediately relaxed in relief. Her eyelids briefly fluttered open, and there was a blurry of colors in unidentified swirls that she couldn't distinguish.

"Great Merlin, she's awake!"

A woman's voice strung through the air, an oddly lulling melody to it. Startled, Ginny made a move to respond, but her throat was raw and it hurt to even grunt.

"Now, now, dear, just stay still. You've been through quite a lot, you know. Don't try and speak, and keep your eyes closed – go back to sleep, there's a lot more work I need to do on you…"

The same voice continued to soothe as gentle, warm fingers with slightly roughened skin tugged her lips apart, and a thick, cool liquid slid down her throat. Almost immediately, she relaxed, her mind unwinding, with the murmur of sleep in her ear.

…

Oh – _God_.

Nausea. Overwhelming nausea. Her stomach uncomfortably knotted in an ache she wasn't accustomed to. Her breathing hitched as the air around her grew hotter, stuffier, and – sweet Mary, she couldn't_breathe_. She was suffocating, Merlin, and her chest was protesting violently –

Suddenly, a growling current flew through her throat as she spewed out the contents of her stomach over white linen sheets, immediately fouling the air. Then another wave, and a third, with Ginny spitting remnants out of her mouth.

Merlin – was she dying? Was she heaving up her intestines? Had she contracted some strain of – of _some_disease – that was killing her from the inside? Oh God, she wasn't _ready_ to die. She couldn't die like this –

"Sweet Hufflepuff, you're not supposed to be awake for another week," a voice exclaimed, and the vomit before her vanished. Before Ginny could comprehend what was going on, a bowl of water was pushed into her hands. "Rinse out your mouth, dear, and I'll set you up with a potion that can calm that stomach of yours."

Bewildered, her gaze followed the arms linked to the bowl until it settled upon the face of a woman with rounded features and auburn hair.

"Rinse," the woman commanded before scuttling over to a cabinet beside a long row of beds with white, crisp sheets, and through the window she could see a desk and more cabinets, resembling something of an office. Was it an illusion? Nothing this spotless could have survived the war.

The woman returned with a vial in hand, scoffing as she met the bowl of water, still clean. "I said, rinse," she repeated sternly, and Ginny suddenly realized what the woman meant and hurriedly obeyed. Without a word, the woman stole back the bowl and Vanished its contents, fitting the vial she carried over into Ginny's hand. "Down that, dear, and it'll put your stomach to rest."

Ginny reached for the vial, but suddenly hesitated. Impossible; there was something altogether too innocent about the situation that tasted awry in her mouth. She ignored her stomach, which still turned violently, throwing a shrewd glance at the vial. It probably held poison. Lord, who knew what toxin she had just rinsed her mouth with? Drugged with Veritaserum, maybe. That woman had to be a disguised Death Eater. Ginny must've fallen unconscious and was found and captured. But –

"Where am I?" she rasped, her voice hoarse from lack of use.

The woman had the nerve to look startled before responding, "Why, you're in Hogwarts' infirmary, child."

Hogwarts? It sounded familiar. Hogwarts… wasn't it a school? No, no – it was a haven. No, that was too long ago. Hogwarts was –

With a frenzied cry, Ginny threw the vial to the floor and tossed the sheets aside, frantic to get away.

Hogwarts was a concentration camp.

Startled, the woman quickly spelled the spill away as she approached Ginny. "Get back in bed, young lady. You're not well enough to be up and about – "

"_Get away from me_! I swear, I – I – "

Shocked into petrifaction, the woman stilled, her eyes blank with confusion. Ginny frantically looked about for an exit. Left, right, left, right – she was defenseless, and that woman had a _wand_. She could barely hear the woman's voice in the background, attempting to calm Ginny down. Left, right – the door was behind the woman, and who knew what, in turn, was behind the door? She was trapped, oh God – left, right, left, right –

Those doors unlocked with a click as a tall, bearded man with half-moon spectacles calmly strode into the room. Ginny felt a twist at the edge of her heart; a recurring throb told her that she should know this wizard. "Albus!" the woman cried, her voice a mixture of relief and frenzy. "Thank heavens! I don't know what to do!" Her hands dropped to her apron, tugging at its already frayed edges. "She just suddenly stood up and began to yell; I don't know what's going on – "

"No need to fret, Thyla. I'm certain she will calm down in time…" the man began with a slight frown.

Albus? Albus – Albus… _Dumbledore,_ a whisper supplied. Her mind flashed to the image pasted onto a Chocolate Frog card. Professor Dumbledore, she suddenly remembered. Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, leader of the Order. Epithets scrolled through her thoughts. Dumbledore, Order of Merlin, First Class. Dumbledore, assassinated by Snape. Ginny's eyes narrowed on the newest arrival, horror and disgust clogging her chest, stilling her, as she stared at those familiar blue eyes. No. Merlin, no. They wouldn't have the audacity to. God, _God_, it sickened her. "You," she bit out, her voice trembling in anger, "_repulse_ me." Her hands clenched at either side. "How could you _think_ – even for an instant – that you could qualify to assume the body of Albus Dumbledore, you bastard?"

Those familiar blue eyes darkened. "I beg your pardon?"

A dry laugh erupted from Ginny's lips, born from infuriation rather than mirth. "Don't pretend that we both don't know that Dumbledore's been dead for years now," she spat. "And now to discredit his name – !" She scoffed. It was a brilliant idea. Sick and brilliant. To turn the image of hope into an image of despair through the means of Polyjuice… Who knew how many Muggles he had killed and tortured under Dumbledore's guise? "As I said. You – you lot, you – you – _Merlin!_ – _how_you disgust me."

The shadow that clouded his eyes flitted away, though they didn't regain its normal sparkle. "Miss – " He cut off, waiting for her to finish.

She jutted out her chin in response. "Bellatrix Black," she retorted as a defiant attack. His sharp gaze almost cut her; her skin was already stinging. It was almost like the real Dumbledore; he seemed to be able to tell when someone was _lying_, and when someone wasn't. But he wasn't the real Dumbledore. Stubbornly, she persisted, "It's true. I'm a moronic, bigoted arse."

His response was sharp – so different from the calm, knowing manner Ginny was used to associating Dumbledore's voice with. "This is no laughing matter, young lady," he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Ginny returned with a scoff. "Because I really find this situation bloody _hilarious_."

The man impersonating Dumbledore studied her with screened eyes. "Miss Black," he said with a subtle emphasis on the supplied surname, "can you share with us everything you know about Hogwarts?"

Her stomach was turning more oppressively than ever, but she pushed the pain aside as she eyed him suspiciously, attempting to realize his ulterior motive. Would he kill her if she proved to know too much? Her stomach murmured in agitation, breaking her train of thought.

Noticing her distrusting look, he attempted another tactic. "Can you supply us with today's date?" he inquired as gently as possible.

Ginny's head had begun to feel light and dizzy, and the ground beneath her began to tilt. "Dates are a kind of trivial thing when you're dying," she retorted, focusing her energy to remain strong. She couldn't collapse. She couldn't fall unconscious. The woman in the nurse's habit gasped sharply, a hand fluttering over her heart.

Odd behavior. As if the woman didn't know what was going on. As if she didn't know what she was _doing._

"The last date you know?" he persisted.

Ginny couldn't think straight now; her mind blurred, and she accidentally let the truthful answer slip out. "July 31, 1999." Stand straight, damn it! Her feet were wavering, and now the ground seemed to be dancing with her head in a long series of pirouettes –

She didn't see the two exchange glances. She didn't see the newspaper that was summoned before it was held out to her. "Miss Black, you were discovered lying in the middle of the corridor some weeks ago. You seemed to have appeared from nowhere."

Middle… what did he say? Middle of nowhere? She took the newspaper, initially unable to interpret the hazy black characters etched against white. _Daily Prophet – August 2, 1943_. And suddenly, her stomach shuddered one last, great wrench as she heaved up one final time onto the headline news.

And then returned that familiar black.

…

Her world was spinning as she rolled over, determined to keep her eyes shut. Last night's dream slowly surfaced to her, visual flashes sequentially rolling through her mind. Odd – she normally didn't dream. She was normally too exhausted to be bothered with recalling details of sleep. And this nightmare was different from the rest… mortifyingly real without the pain of seeing George's once mirth-filled face frozen in horror and hate, his head –

Hurriedly, she shook the thought from her mind. George wasn't meant to look like that. He was supposed to be forever smiling.

Gentle fingertips guided her upright on the bed. Surprised, her eyes snapped open, and her gaze caught on a startlingly familiar brunette woman in a Healer's uniform. It was the Death Eater from her dream.

No, it couldn't be – she was supposed to be nothing more than a character from a nightmare! Her heart hammered loudly in her chest, each metronomic thump pounding shock into her eyes. "Oh, God," she murmured with a wide-eyed groan. "You weren't supposed to be real."

Submission – it was disgusting. It was clear in her tone. No, not submission. It was a realized _admission_ that she was trapped, that she couldn't leave. And – Merlin, her spine lurched and curled at the idea of what the woman would do to her. But that mere notion sent angry flushes to her cheeks again. No, she refused to have her body experimented with, mutilated, for sadistic enjoyment. She would fight.

Yanking herself away from the woman's touch, Ginny rolled off the bed and dropped to the ground, barely registering the hum of pain in her bones from the thud of her landing.

The woman cried, "What do you think you're doing? Your bones have barely been strengthened as it is, and your muscles are still depleted – "

From the Hospital Wing office, the man impersonating Dumbledore entered with a concerned countenance. "My dear Thyla, what is going on?"

The woman stood, flabbergasted for a moment before hissing, "Albus, the Calming Draught didn't work!"

Calming Draught? That was why the admission was so readily available in her tone. Ginny retracted all her ideas about not being ready to die; she was willing to die, so long as it wasn't by their hands.

"Perhaps," the man speculated, his hard gaze focused on Ginny, "the… delusion she is under has a very strong emotional involvement." Delusion? She was under no delusion! She heatedly opened her mouth to retort, but he silenced her with a cutting stare. "It might be best to not interfere by magical means, but to wait in time until she accepts it."

The corners of the woman's lips tugged into a frown, her brows furrowed as she scrutinized Ginny. Who were they to talk – to act – as if she weren't there? "I'm _not_ delusional," Ginny spat, anger driving her footsteps forward. "I don't know what mind game you're playing at, but – "

He raised a hand, and words escaped her. "I suggest that you let your body rest, Miss Black. I assure you, that no one will hurt you here." There was something in his tone that just demanded Ginny's trust and confidence, perhaps that he was so much like Dumbledore in his actions and words that she found it difficult to believe that it could be anyone _but_ him. "Here," he continued, procuring a vial. "A sleeping draught. I can test it first if you want; examine it all you'd like."

Sleeping draughts… she had learned about them before, the details hidden behind a foggy frame. Dark blue, with tendrils of teal smoking in delicate patterns. But she couldn't recall enough to decide whether or not it had been tampered with; and she couldn't trust _his_ offer to test take it. He had probably already taken the antidote. Because, she reminded herself firmly, this wasn't the real Dumbledore. This was a Death Eater.

"You were reported to have carried nothing with you when you appeared," he maintained smoothly. He paused for a moment before saying, "Thyla, would you excuse me for a moment alone with Miss Black?"

With a surprised nod, the woman disappeared into her office, securing the door closed. "Do seat yourself?" he offered, gesturing to the long row of beds. When she remained standing stiffly, he said as he moved to a bed, "I hope you can forgive me, then, for choosing to seat myself."

Ginny's brows furrowed. "What do you want?"

"It has nothing to do with what _I_ want, Miss Black," he replied, his jovial tone taking a serious turn, "but a point. My point is, that I don't believe you _are_ delusional, despite what I have told Thyla. I believe that you, indeed, _are_ from what seems to be the miserable future. You were reported to have carried nothing when you appeared," he repeated, treading onward despite her move to retaliate, "but one of your hands was cut – seemingly by something akin to glass – and was dusted with sand."

"Sand?" Ginny echoed, frowning.

"The year is 1943, I am not dead, and no one plans to kill you. It will take time before you can realize and accept this, but until then, try not to push your body to limits it cannot stand in protest." With a glance at the potion still in her hand, he said, "Sleep will do you well. Good day, Miss Black."

He turned and left, following Thyla's earlier retreat to her office. She stood alone, troubled, staring at the vial, and she recalled briefly the end of what she thought to be last night's nightmare – a newspaper, dated to August 2, 1943.

He – Dumbledore, or whoever masqueraded him – did appear younger than she remembered. She hesitated to accede that she _wasn't_ dead yet, and that she even _had_ the energy to rebel supplied that she was being healed. That she was even brought to the Hospital Wing at all, and that she was vastly improved from her tomb-worthy state. It was too exhausting to constantly imagine backward logic, she decided as her mind drew a weary moan. And, pushing all thoughts away, she moved to a bed and downed the potion before an unwanted notion could surface, hitting the pillow and hearing only the shatter of glass as the vial slipped from her fingers and the breath of her own sigh, praying that her moment's worth of trust wouldn't push her past the second threshold that distinguished routine from death.

A shatter of glass, and then black. Where had she heard that before?


	2. Ch 1: Boggart

Final Riddles

Yes! I have completed this chapter in celebration that I FINALLY GOT AN A IN CHEMISTRY FOR FOURTH QUARTER! XD XD XD Of course, I got a C on the final, but that's not important. So now, the only class I've never got an A in in all four quarters is band.

Yaaaaaaay.

Anyways, thank you so much to Daughter of the Black for being an incredible beta and to all my reviewers.

I hope I can update more often, but between volunteering, classes, work, SAT prep, and procrastination, I might be a little pressed for time. But I'll try to update soon. Enjoy the new chapter, even if it's something you've seen twice before. Literally.

…….

_I am black, I am fear_

_A mere shadow of what looms near_

**Chapter One: Boggart**

Her blood froze and her chest stilled, with only the slow metronomic pounding of her heart drumming in her ears. Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her as she tightened her grip on her wand, her body tense with her eyes trained on the limp corpse with matted red hair soiled into brown obscuring his face. Slowly, the body rolled over by its own will, tousling the hair aside. And there she saw them – those wide, haunted blue eyes she could never forget, stilled into lifelessness.

"Dad," she whispered brokenly, and she tore her eyes away. She knew what he looked like; she saw the image every night when her eyes drifted closed. Legs tangled and burned into one; holes carved into his palms… She didn't need to see this. Not at night, and not now. Not now, standing in an empty classroom in broad daylight.

A crack startled her into opening her eyes, and suddenly there was Mum: Mum, with her beautiful auburn hair and those lips that were so often pulled into an easy smile, melded together –

_Crack. Crack. Crack._

It was Fred and George – no, Ron – no, then Bill, with gashes along the sides of his face exposing raw flesh – no, Charlie! – Harry.

Oh God, it was Harry, exactly as she had seen him when he had been showcased, dead, after the last battle. Secured within his hands were his own eyeballs, gouged out from their sockets. Those empty lids sank deep and his lightning-bolt-shaped scar was carved out. And –

She felt her stomach turn again. She couldn't – _Merlin_, she was going to throw up –

_Crack_.

Harry rose, his body abruptly restored to perfection. A smile flitted across her face for the briefest moment as he approached her, tenderly reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind her ears. "Harry!" she breathed, lifting her eyes to catch his pale blue ones –

No. Harry's eyes were green, like the color of a fresh-pickled toad. The drumming in her ears halted into an unnerving silence. This wasn't Harry. This was Tom Riddle.

His slender fingers ran along the length of her chin and she shuddered, pulling away in disgust. His eyes – those damn _blue_ eyes – laughed with amusement. "Sweet Ginny," he mused. "You know it's not me you're afraid of. You only fear the truth, and I am its only messenger."

She bit her lip and turned away, dread churning in her stomach.

"Miss Ginevra?"

A new voice abruptly captured her attention and she turned, startled, to find Professor Dippet standing in the back of the classroom with a quizzical look on his face. And instantly, she remembered – she was still being tested. She had significantly recovered since her brush with death, and Dumbledore had somehow persuaded Dippet to consider accepting Ginny as a potential Hogwarts student if she could pass an entrance exam. _But_, she wondered, _what was Riddle…?_ Steeling herself, she returned to catch Riddle's steady gaze.

_Boggart_, she realized. _Boggart. "_Merlin!" she muttered under her breath. Riddle was advancing – _and what was the incantation?_ Rid… Ridicule? No, that definitely wasn't it. If it was, that would be absolutely ridiculous –

…_Oh._

She lifted her wand. "_Rid _– "

His eyes taunted, daring her to complete the spell. "You know it was you, my little siren."

_Bull_, Ginny reminded herself. _Bullshit._ Raising her voice, she swung her wand down hard. " _– ikulus!_" she finished, and he immediately collapsed into a disfigured heap on the floor. The air was a still as she waited in anticipation – was that it? Was it over? Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, but faltered as the boggart began to move again.

But it was Harry – Harry, with those emerald green eyes – who rose this time, with his lopsided smile and round glasses. Harry, alive, with his scar intact and his limbs in order. Her breathing hitched – when was the last time she had seen him? She was doused in a sudden wave of homesickness, images flickering through her mind in short clips. A broom and a Quidditch goal post. A snitch. A bat-boogey hex. A hug. The Room of Requirement. "Harry…"

"This is your chance, Ginny," he grinned as he returned to the trunk that the boggart had been released from. "Weed evil out before it begins – "

The trunk lid slammed shut before she could catch the last of his words, ringing in her ears.

"That's all, Miss Ginevra. I suggest you return to the Hospital Wing. No doubt Thyla – excuse me – Madame Frost will want you to rest after this strenuous practical," Dippet suggested, his tone a forced light.

She could vaguely hear him in the background, white noise against the reverberating echoes of Harry's last words. Numbly, Ginny nodded. Her gaze was still fixed on the trunk as she felt her way out of the classroom.

"Do you need help making the trip there?" the headmaster inquired, his brows furrowed in concern.

There was a moment's pause as Ginny struggled to find her voice. "No," she responded faintly before tearing her eyes away to meet Dippet's. "I can make it on my own. Thank you, Sir," she continued, her voice stronger. And hurriedly, before he could insist on accompanying her to the infirmary, she slipped out the door and tore through the hallways.

She just wanted to be alone.

The room was a hazy black when Ginny opened her eyes in the middle of the night, rolling over to stare at the Hospital Wing ceiling. Her arm still danced with the magic she had felt surging through her body when she gripped the wand for the test – a flood of comforting warmth that made a smile flicker on her face. And with it, sudden memories came streaming back, dousing her in shock. As if a piece of her was returned with the return of magic.

Happy memories. Happy memories that brought a twisting wistfulness into her heart. A reminder of how _life_ was before it climaxed into death. Of summer days when she would sneak into the broom cupboard to fly; of winter days cuddled by the Gryffindor fire in the large red armchair. Even rushing to finish a two-foot-long essay due for Transfiguration in ten minutes.

Normalcy – and here was her chance to taste it again, though without family. Without friends. But normalcy tasted bitter now, whereas it used to taste bland. She wasn't sure if she _could_ return to normalcy, even if she tried. The stain of war shadowed her; she could see it haunting her eyes whenever she caught a glimpse of herself in a still pool of water or a mirror.

Would she ever be able to forget?

Did she want to?

Her attention was caught by an opening door and hurried whispers. She bit her lip. The hour was late, and Ginny could think of no one who might still be up.

"Professors! Is anything the matter? My patient is sleeping, and I can't – "

"In your office, Thyla – "

"Of course, of course – "

The door closed again, and from the corner of her eye, the redhead could see three figures settling themselves in the office. They spoke in murmurs, but having lived so long in the dark, Ginny's ears were finely tuned to catch almost every word passed between the professors.

"Yes, what is it?" Madame Frost urged.

"I… was wondering exactly how… _fit_ you find Miss Black – excuse me, Miss _Ginevra_ – is to be as a Hogwarts student?" Dippet inquired, clearing his throat. It hadn't been long after she affirmed that Hogwarts was _not_ a concentration camp and that she had fallen back in time before she rectified her earlier lie, masquerading as Bellatrix Black.

An awkward pause stretched before Madame Frost conjured an answer. "She's improved remarkably since her arrival," the nurse began slowly, "and – and if she continues to improve at the same pace, she'll be more than fit to be a student when it comes to health." A moment's silence hung. "That is, if she continues to come in for weekly check-ups and takes potions, of course," she added hastily.

"More than fit…" Dippet repeated.

A new voice, one Ginny recognized as Dumbledore's, inputted, "How was her practical?"

"Practical?"

"For the entrance exam."

"Ah yes, the practical." Ginny shifted in her bed, waiting anxiously for Dippet to continue. Dread clogged her stomach. Having forgotten many of the spells that he demanded of her, her performance was less than stunning. "She certainly has magical talent – that much is obvious. However, she did not properly execute as many spells as would be required of her as a Hogwarts student, though she seemed to be more _rusty_ than _oblivious_."

"Rusty?"

A sigh was heaved before Dippet confirmed, "Rusty. As if she hadn't cast magic in a long time, instead of never having learned."

"Ah…"

"She did perform better in some subject areas than others," Dippet said abruptly, when silence was threatening to triumph again. "Defense Against the Dark Arts – best performance by far. It would take little extra training to bring her up to NEWT level."

Ginny fought to keep from laughing. A little extra training in Defense Against the Dark Arts? She probably knew more in the subject than Dippet did himself, even if she hadn't practiced magic at all in what felt like eons.

"I – I noticed a certain _pattern_ in the areas that she performed best in," Dippet began hesitantly. "More domestic spells – turning frogs into teacups, for instance – were lost on her, while other more… for lack of a better term, _survival-savvy_ skills were stronger."

Unsurprised, Ginny imagined the scene within the nurse's office: three frowns pulled, Dippet in confusion, Dumbledore in thought, and Frost in worry.

"She seems to be clever enough otherwise. I expect that she _can_ keep up with Hogwarts schoolwork, she will just require tutoring to catch up," Dippet continued.

"Will you be accepting her to Hogwarts, then?" Madame Frost asked.

Another heavy sigh was drawn. "There's too much that I don't know about her for me to make that decision right now," Dippet concluded. He paused for a moment before commenting, "You say you think she'll be physically prepared for school?"

"Well… at the rate things are headed for right now, yes," Madame Frost said.

"Very well then, that is all. Good night, Thyla."

"Sleep well," Dumbledore said, and Ginny heard the door open and feet shuffle.

"Good night, Armando, Albus."

The door to Madame Frost's office clicked shut and the lights were extinguished shortly after. She heard a pair of footsteps walking across the infirmary before they suddenly halted.

"There's one more thing I didn't mention," Dippet said in a low undertone. "During the practical, one of the obstacles was a boggart." His voice dropped. "I saw people impaled by their own wands. People with body parts turned inside out, iron melted against skin… People who – for the most part – looked to be of her family." He huffed disbelievingly before repeating, "Impaled! By their own wand, Albus!"

Ginny tensed and her heart pace quickened. So he _had_ seen.

"But that's not the oddest part – the boggart then turned into a student _here_, at Hogwarts," Dippet said. "Our own Head Boy."

A student at Hogwarts? Head Boy? But that meant –

"Her boggart turned into Tom Riddle?" Dumbledore said.

– Tom Riddle was a student at Hogwarts. Now.

Ginny squeezed her eyes shut. What was the year? What was the number printed on that issue of the Daily Prophet that Dumbledore had shown her? Nineteen…

_1943_.

Her stomach clenched. It was true.

They began to walk again, and she heard a doorknob turn. "He spoke to her, too – and she answered back. But after she cast the spell on it – you understand how most boggarts turn into something similar, like how a banshee boggart might lose its voice, but not change. Her boggart changed person. Another person, who I recognized to have had the most gruesome death the boggart took shape in. But he was healthy, intact – and he spoke to her. Something encouraging, I believe."

They closed the door to the Hospital Wing behind them, and Ginny could no longer decipher their muffled voices. She rolled over, her eyes wide open as she stared out into the hazy black.

Tom Riddle – student.

Suddenly, the words she had contemplated all day drifted through her mind.

_This is your chance, Ginny. Weed out evil before it begins…_

She bit her lip and her fists clenched the white blanket. She would do it. She was a Gryffindor; she could face Tom Riddle. If for nothing else, for Harry. For her family.

God damn, she'd do it for the whole wizarding world.

She was going to stop Lord Voldemort from ever becoming.

She faltered. That is… she would have to be accepted into Hogwarts, first.

_Well_, Ginny tutted to herself, _way to be anticlimactic._

_......_

Some of Ginny's personality's coming back! School will start in the next chapter, huzzah :D


	3. Ch 2: Initiation

Final Riddles

So, uh, I lost my flash drive. And by "I lost my flash drive," I mean it broke. And with it, I lost all my files, ranging from pictures to school to fanfiction from the past 2 years… including my original version of Final Riddles. So now I'm essentially re-writing it with the only reference from my mind. Makes things a lot harder, since I was going to keep a lot of the original, but, eh. Life moves on. But the updates won't be as frequent as I hoped it would be, since I'm no longer able to copy & paste entire portions anymore.

Thanks to all me reviewers! I really meant to respond to all your awesome comments, but after a couple, well… I got… distracted. X.x Sorry. But you know who you are, and I love you anyways xD And thanks especially to **Daughter of the Black **and **SylphJr **for beta-ing :D

I completely cut out Adriana and Mith this time, and Ginny's a whole lot more emo-tastic. Well, at least, it's my attempt to make her characterization more realistic, with recovering from the war and going back into Hogwarts without family and whatnot. Besides that, this chapter should look awfully familiar, for no reason whatsoever.

Also, for those of you impatient to know what's going on with the story, I've decided to start keeping a status on my profile so you guys can know what I'm working on and how far along I've come. Though caution, you might hate me for the amount of time it'll read "procrastinating."

Just wondering, how many of you guys actually read these super long pre-chapter author's notes?

Anyways. Enjoy!

--

_Prepare for beginnings that take you to ends_

_In between sort out your enemies and friends_

**Chapter Two: Initiation**

As it turned out, she needn't have worried.

"Acecot, Phillip!"

Ginny strongly suspected that her acceptance into Hogwarts primarily rose from Dippet's desire to keep a close eye on her, but that was fine by her. Attending Hogwarts, of course, meant that Ginny needed to catch up in her studies to match the other students, and Dumbledore took it upon himself to tutor her for the remainder of the summer… though he hinted that he would be less capable of helping her in her studies once school began. And even though she displayed remarkable progress, she was still far behind of what was required, especially considering the five NEWT-level classes she planned to take. Dippet, naturally, refused, even as she adamantly persisted. It wasn't until Dumbledore stepped in that her schedule was finally approved. Though Ginny wondered now, if she should have been less stubborn and taken easier courses, of course, she had taken the classes she suspected Riddle to have taken, but…

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The table beside her erupted into roars, jerking the redhead out of her thoughts, as the first year boy pulled off the Sorting Hat and scampered over while "Arrison, Laura" was called and sorted.

And suddenly, Ginny was doused with a cold realization. She hadn't yet considered which House she wanted to be sorted into, and she felt immensely stupid for never having done so. Were her brains really _that_ addled? She had no more than a couple of minutes to decide which House to be placed into, and _how_…

Merlin, she was so bloody _stupid_.

Focusing on the problem at hand, she hurriedly figured Gryffindor and Hufflepuff to be completely out of the question, leaving only Slytherin and Ravenclaw. And while Slytherin itself seemed intimidating, she couldn't be a Ravenclaw, she was too far behind in her studies.

And wouldn't she be able to get closer to Riddle if she was in Slytherin?

_But_, Ginny protested to herself, _it's Slytherin._ Could she fit in? Could she pretend to be a convincing pseudo Slytherin, or would she collapse? Would she collapse and blow her entire cover?

"Galliway, Arnold!"

They were only on the "G's", Ginny mused to herself as Arnold, a chubby boy with brown hair, was sorted into Hufflepuff. Being a Weasley, it would be a while before she was called, giving her plenty of time to determine which House she wanted to be in. It was times like these that she was thankful for having a surname that began with "W."

"Ginevra!"

_What -- ?_

The cheering Hufflepuffs quieted and Ginny blinked, belatedly recalling that she had refrained from informing anyone of her actual surname after retracting the last name "Black", as it would make her far too conspicuous. Instead, she'd offered only her given name and a sob story of being orphaned too young to recall her last name – though, looking back, neglecting to own a surname probably called just as much attention to her.

She was not a Weasley _here_. The thought sent a dull ache through her chest.

As she slowly made her way forward to the stool, the whispers she had pointedly ignored earlier grew more prominent than ever. Ginny never had any qualms when it came to self-confidence – besides, she hesitantly acceded, her first year at Hogwarts – but the attention more than discomforted her. Being alone for so long, the mere concept of _people_ still bewildered her, let alone _this_.

"It's that tall girl – why hasn't she got a last name?"

"I'm telling you, she's a vampire. Don't they have really fast growth spurts before they stop growing altogether?"

"You nitwit, vampires don't grow. _Ever_."

"I _know_ that, but – "

Ginny gladly accepted the Sorting Hat that Dumbledore handed to her with twinkling eyes. She pulled it on and allowed it's gravelly voice to block out the students. This time, the Hat didn't fall over her eyes as it did when she was eleven, though it did cover her ears and muffle the whispers that swept the Great Hall.

"A Weasley, I see?" the familiar drawl murmured. The Hat's voice rung loud in her mind, and Ginny needed to remind herself that others could not hear what it was saying to her. They didn't know she was a Weasley, and they wouldn't know. "I wondered what your surname was… well, no matter. Best be GRYFF – "

In shock, Ginny shook her head vehemently. _Not Gryffindor_, she pleaded. _Anything but Gryffindor – and Hufflepuff._

The Sorting Hat chuckled a dry laugh. "Not Gryffindor? Oh, but that's where you're meant to be!" It paused for a moment before continuing in a lower voice, "I can see your plan – very daring, very ambitious, very clever, and reflects your loyalty. But it exemplifies _courage_ and _nobility_ the most. You wouldn't do well in Slytherin at all. You'd fall apart. Mark my words, you'll do well in GRYFF – "

_Slytherin?_ Ginny echoed belatedly before it registered in her mind that the Hat was already sorting her into Gryffindor again.

" – ERIN!" the Hat finished, confusing the intended "Gryffindor" with Ginny's "Slytherin." It faltered, bewildered for a moment, and Ginny snapped her eyes open, mortified. The whole Hall was watching her peculiarly: the Hat had attempted to sort her twice already, and failed both times. It was unheard of. Brilliant. This was _exactly_ the sort of attention she wanted.

_I didn't ask for Slytherin_, Ginny snapped after heaving an exasperated sigh. _I just said I refuse to be sorted into Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. That still leaves Ravenclaw._

The Hat was quiet for a moment before muttering in a low tone, "I shouldn't be saying this, but Slytherins care only for themselves, and rarely if ever their own – let alone others. You'll need to be one of them if you want the chance to work _with_ one of them – and not just be used."

_What - ?_ The Sorting Hat _never_ spoke ill – or at least so _blatantly_ – about any specific House.

"You don't know what you're signing up for, but if you're sure…" The Hat sighed heavily. "SLYTHERIN!"

She lingered on the stool for a few seconds with closed eyes before breathing a soft thank-you to the Hat and handing it to Dumbledore, who took it with a slight frown. Refusing to make eye contact, she instead turned toward the applauding table. She hadn't told anyone about what she intended to do, and she supposed that Dumbledore had gotten to know her well enough in the past month to suspect that Slytherin was the last House Ginny would ever be sorted into.

But what could she say? "Hello, my name is Ginny Weasley, and I'm here, fifty years before my time, to stop your beloved Head Boy from becoming an evil madman that will kill masses of Muggles and Muggleborns." _Brilliant._ The words sounded stupid even in her mind.

As "Green, Emily" was called forward, Ginny turned to look at her surroundings. It felt so… _off_, looking up at the staff from this angle. From the other side of the Great Hall. From the _Slytherin_ – God, the word sounded so uncomfortably foreign to her – table.

She was a _Slytherin_.

What would her mother say to that? What would Ron say? He would probably be incapable of speech, with his mouth flapping open and closed every eight seconds and his ears bright red. Fred and George would probably crack a joke and demand her to help them prank the entire Slytherin House, and Percy would verbally express his opinion in five-syllable-long words in a code that only a dictionary could decipher. He did that whenever he felt uncertain – he would retreat into his pompous, formal, diplomatic self, until he finally lost himself to it sometime during his Hogwarts years. And then Bill would –

She shook her head, clearing her mind of any more thoughts. Her heart wrenched in her chest, and her eyes flickered closed for a moment before she sniffed, holding her back straighter. She promised herself that she would stay strong. And she would. She _would_.

When she felt composed enough to look up, her gaze was caught by someone else's, who immediately turned away with a scowl. She had been caught. The few seconds of wet eyes already ruined her reputation. And, looking around her, that person wasn't the only one who noticed. Ginny saw the discreet glances they flashed her way, so quick that she almost doubted that they looked at her at all.

This was her first taste of Slytherin. Where everyone watched, where everyone knew, but nobody mentioned.

Gryffindors wouldn't have noticed. Not immediately, at least. She remembered with a wry smile how it was almost a whole month of being _possessed_ in her first year before anyone commented about her passive behavior, and at least another passed before they were worried and disregarded her claims of "I'm fine." Gryffindors trusted a little too much, but they cared. They comforted.

With a mournful sigh, Ginny stared at her reflection in the gold dinner plate. Her hair had regained its vibrant color, though it remained several shades darker than the typical Weasley red that almost bordered on orange. Her skin was still too pale, but she hoped to remedy it by taking homework outside – and, Ginny fancied, perhaps Quidditch – where she could greet the sun after those years of darkness.

But perhaps the most haunting change was in her eyes – the amber brown color remained the same, but there seemed to be a shadow's film behind it – guarded, wary, and sometimes strained. A stillness.

Her eyes were never still before. They would dance in laughter; they would thunder in anger. Great Aunt Muriel used to say that "you can tell a thousand stories with one glance at Ginny's eyes," but now?

With six older brothers growing up (especially with two of them being Fred and George), Ginny had long since learned to school her features and perfect her acting ability to level the playing ground. She could play innocent to her mum after setting a jar full of spiders on Ron; she could convince Charlie into giving her the last jelly pastry. Yet now, when she needed her acting ability the most, she wasn't sure if she could mask those sorrowful eyes.

A resounding clap drew her attention to the front, where Dippet stood with arms wide open. The Sorting was over, Ginny realized, and the welcome speech was about to begin.

"First years, welcome to Hogwarts! And to everyone else, welcome back!"

With a glance at furrowed brows of the people around her, Ginny didn't feel very welcome at all.

When she was ten, she never thought that she could relate Hogwarts to dread.

Now she knew better.

----x----

This wasn't where she was supposed to be.

Ginny stared at the Fat Lady. She had been standing here for at least five minutes now, and she still hadn't moved. She should. She should, before some Gryffindor stumbled back from the feast and saw the newly donned Slythern crest on her robes.

This wasn't where she was supposed to be, and it felt so _wrong_ to think that.

Tearing her eyes away from the portrait, where the Fat Lady was deeply engrossed in conversation with her friend in the lavender dress, Ginny spun on her heel and nearly bolted down the corridor.

Even though she was dosed up on potions, the redhead couldn't stomach as much food as she could before and fatigued easily. She had decided to return to her dorm before dessert was even presented, but her feet carried her through six years' worth of routine and brought her to the entrance of the Gryffindor common room while she was lost in thought.

And now, she needed to leave before somebody caught her out here.

Slipping through a labyrinth of secret passageways, Ginny redirected herself toward the dungeons. It was lucky that she spent her sixth year sneaking into the Slytherin common room to vandalize in rebellion against Snape and the Carrows so that she knew where the entrance was. But, as she found herself staring blankly at the wall again, she realized with a groan that she didn't know the password. Stupidity, it seemed, decided to be her best friend today.

After hesitating for several more moments, she decided to return to the Great Hall, where the rest of the school was likely finishing their first slice of pumpkin pie – but as Ginny turned around, she ran straight into someone who was standing right behind her.

"Sorry, 'scuse – " The words died on her lips as she looked up to meet a pair of icy blue eyes framed with raven black hair. Her hand immediately itched for her wand. He was exactly as she remembered him – tall in stature, high cheekbones… Yet not even a whole month's worth of preparation could still her frantically beating heart upon meeting Tom Riddle.

He arched an eyebrow, and Ginny hastened to compose herself as she cleared her throat. "I left the feast early but later realized I didn't know the password – "

"Miss… Ginevra, was it?" Riddle inquired. His voice was quiet with a certain authority that made it seem as if he hadn't interrupted at all, but rather been in charge of the conversation to begin with. When the witch nodded, he mused lightly, "You must have a great sense of direction to have found the entrance of the Slytherin common room by yourself."

Ginny blinked.

…_Oh, shi – Merlin…_

"I… arrived at Hogwarts several days early," she ad-libbed, resisting the flush that threatened to flame her cheeks. "I had the chance to explore a bit by myself." _Excellent cover,_ she thought dryly. The argument sounded weak, even to her.

He nodded. "And you recognized these stone columns to guard the Slytherin common room," he concluded.

Ginny fought to remain calm, holding herself higher and eyeing Riddle coldly. She _couldn't_ show any sign of weakness in front of him. "The portraits made excellent tour guides," she returned.

If he was skeptical at all, he didn't show it. Instead, he returned to face the entrance before commenting, "The password is _alpha_."

On cue, the stone walls slid apart to reveal the common room bathed in a soft green light. Ginny felt the cold stinging her exposed skin. Nothing at all like the Gryffindor common room, she decided, with its warm hues and roaring fire.

Nothing at all.

"Thank you," Ginny murmured, and when Riddle made no sign to move, she slipped past him and headed for the dorms. The sooner she was away from him, the better – her pulse still drummed to a quick tempo, and she needed to breathe.

_God_… could she do this? Could she do as the boggart told her to? Their meeting barely lasted even a minute and her mind was still reeling.

She wasn't sure how long she stood there, leaning against the wall, but soon others began to filter in and voices began filling the silence. Several lingered in the common room, but most directed themselves for the dorms, brushing past Ginny as she remained in place. Finally, deciding it was better to find her dorm as well, the redhead followed the crowd, and she couldn't help but catch snippets of conversation as she scanned the corridor for her room.

"Oh Lord, I simply _cannot _wait for the Initiation tonight… Did I tell you? My brother's an Inquisitor now!" an excited voice floated over, followed by a giggle.

There was a gasp. "No, you didn't! How long have you kept this from me?"

"_I_ found out just last week when he said the Initiation would be a lot more exciting for him this year – "

"Shush, I think that's a first year headed this way…"

A few seconds of silence followed before either of them spoke again. "No, that's a second year. Anyways, I told him that the Initiation was _always_ exciting, and…"

_Initiation?_ Ginny echoed in her mind. They made it out to be a formal occasion, one Ginny never heard of. And if it was to occur tonight, why had no one mentioned it to her? _Well_, the witch supposed, _perhaps they assumed I knew_. She hadn't exactly been social during the feast, and outside of the Great Hall, Riddle was the only Slytherin she had met – and their conversation hardly amounted to friendly.

While she was wondering if she should interrupt their conversation to ask what the Initiation was, Ginny lost sight of the two girls and stumbled upon her room, her name carved in silver beneath three other unfamiliar names on the door. Pushing it open, she found four beds, each claiming a corner of the room, one of which was already occupied by a petite fair-skinned girl with hair so light, it almost appeared silver. There was something meek about the way the witch held herself as she crouched behind a worn book that made her appear all the more fragile, even the hesitant way she turned each page betrayed a timid nature.

Ginny paused for a moment. What was the girl doing in Slytherin? She looked as if she belonged in Hufflepuff.

Curiosity taking the best of her, the redhead stepped forward and said, "Hi. I'm Ginny. I'm… new here."

The girl stiffened and glanced up quickly, a frightened expression fixed on her face. After several moments of silence, Ginny swore she heard the witch whisper a "hi" back.

Seating herself on her bed, Ginny continued, "Sorry, I don't know your name…"

"It's Evalis," the girl offered softly, and Ginny needed to strain her ears to catch it.

"Err, right then." An awkward silence settled and Ginny racked her brain for a way to end it. "So…" she tried. "I heard something about an Initiation tonight? What is that, exactly?"

Evalis looked alarmed at Ginny's persistence in conversation. She seemed readier to die than to talk. "It's a celebration for newcomers. The first-years… and you," she added quietly.

"A celebration?" Ginny repeated, frowning.

The silver-haired girl pulled the book in closer to her, effectively hiding her face from Ginny. "To rank."

Though the answer didn't clarify anything for Ginny at all, she mused out loud instead, "No one told me about any Initiation."

Evalis' strangled voice floated over, "Newcomers aren't ever informed of the Initiation."

_Aren't ever…_ But what did that mean? Surely if it was a celebration was for newcomers, the guests of honors would be at least notified of the Initiation. "I don't understand," Ginny said, her brows furrowed.

"It's… it's in the common room."

Evalis's rushed tone told Ginny that she didn't want to speak anymore and, acquiescing to her wishes, Ginny nodded and left. Thinking that all her questions might be answered at the Initiation itself, she headed for the common room and settled down as close to the fireplace as possible with her back to the wall. There were considerably more people here than before, but, in Ginny's mind, they were all far too quiet. Even the first years giggled and whispered among themselves in low tones, whereas in the Gryffindor common room, they would be gasping and shrieking over the seventh years' roaring laughter.

It was never quiet in Gryffindor. Compared to this solemn atmosphere, the Gryffindor common room was a party.

And the Slytherins called _this_ a celebration?

Her eyes swept across the room. It was a habit born from the war, where _constant vigilance_ was the key to survival. One miscalculation in a passerby's position could result in death; one notice of an exit normally overlooked could save a life. Even though she knew that the fact that there weretwo girls sitting in the back left corner, talking to each other with their gazes skipping from person to person meant nothing, she felt more comfortable knowing that several older Slytherins scattered across the room wore the same piercing stare as they scanned the small groups of first-years–

Ginny stopped short. Were those the Inquisitors she had earlier heard of? The first-years were easy enough to spot. They were the ones that clustered close to each other, some still dressed in school robes and some, for whatever reason, donning dress robes, whispering excitedly to each other. And nearby each group of first years, Ginny noticed at least one older Slytherin strategically seated nearby with a book open in their lap or a parchment and quill in their hands. Situated along the walls were several Slytherins half lurking in the shadows, watching the first years' actions.

There were the ears, then the eyes. But all this for what?

_To rank._ Evalis' murmured answer floated across Ginny's mind. Did that mean they – the first years and Ginny – were being judged by the Inquisitors? But for what? It seemed like a twisted version of a one-sided welcome party, where the incoming Slytherins were introduced and analyzed for the returning Slytherins. But what would be the purpose of that? And not even all of the newcomers would be in attendance, considering that no one was informed of the Initiation, if what Evalis said was true. How would they be judged?

_Perhaps_, Ginny thought as a realization sprung, _they'll be judged by the fact that they weren't able to get a hold of information on the Initiation. That they weren't able to listen and learn about the Initiation from others, and then extract the knowledge._

It made some sort of sense, in a sick sort of way.

But Ginny still couldn't fathom the reason behind all the trickery. Why? Why would they go out of their way to study each year's new Slytherins?

"…_I_ can't wait for my question. I've got my answer already prepared."

An arrogant voice that was slightly raised above all others drifted over to where Ginny was seated, pulling her out of her thoughts. Looking toward the voice's source, she found one of the first years that chose to wear a pair of dress robes instead of the school uniform talking to her friends.

"I thought you weren't supposed to know your question beforehand, Victoria," a boy commented suspiciously. His voice was low, but even so, Ginny had little difficulty hearing him.

The girl – presumably Victoria – smiled smugly and said, "I think I can wager a good guess on what my question will be. God, _when_ is the Inquisitor going to show up?"

Ginny frowned. The _Inquisitor?_ she thought. _Isn't there more than one…? And aren't they already here?_ Still, it seemed as if the first years knew more about the Initiation than she did. As if they knew they were to be judged. Perhaps that was why some of them wore dress robes, Ginny realized. She hadn't thought about apparel affecting the Inquisitors' decisions.

"So what do you think your question will be, if you're so clever?" demanded a third from their party.

Ginny's brows furrowed at the mention of a "question" again. What were they talking about? She hated feeling lost and confused, but it seemed as if complete obfuscation decided jointly with stupidity to befriend her today.

Before Victoria could answer, the group was interrupted as someone Ginny earlier recognized to be an eavesdropping Inquisitor casually lounging on a sofa leaned over and knocked one of the girls' elbow. "Oi," he said, looking at the girl whose arm he had just grabbed, "what's your name?"

Surprised, the girl blinked for a moment before answering. "Stacy Vi – "

"On second thought, I don't care," the Inquisitor interrupted, shoving a flask at her. "Fill this up with water for me. I'm thirsty."

Hastily, Stacy nodded as she took the flask and scampered off to obey his order. The Inquisitor smirked for a moment before returning to his relaxed position and scribbled something down in the book he was reading, and the first years returned to their chatter.

Was that the question? Was that Stacy's question, and was what the Inquisitor inscribed into his book his evaluation of her response? It made sense – where else would the title "Inquisitor" come from if it didn't include some form of an interrogation?

_So_, Ginny thought wryly, _they not only have eyes and ears, but now they have a voice, too. _But she was still stymied from understanding _why_ such an elaborate set-up even existed. And she was tired. She wanted to go to bed already, but – as she had noticed a little while earlier – all of the exits had been conveniently blocked with people, making a quiet escape near impossible.

As she contemplated whether or not it would be wise to decide to fall asleep right then and there, someone slid into the chair beside her. "You seem rather lost in thought," the person observed.

"Brilliant observation," Ginny snapped tiredly as she turned around to meet those same blue eyes again, with the same ice in them that froze her pulse. God thrust Tom Riddle in her way for the second time today – but what was he doing here? She hadn't seen him when she scanned the room, and hardly anything ever slipped her notice after the war trained paranoia into her. But then again, this was Tom Riddle – he had a tendency to be seen only when he wanted to be seen.

She dreaded his response. After their last confrontation – Ginny's cheeks heated at the mere thought of it – she probably threw herself into suspicion, which was the last thing she needed.

"Would you care to share?" he inquired politely. "On the first night back, all anyone ever speaks of is gossip. It's rare to find someone engaged in actual thinking."

She glanced shrewdly at him, debating whether or not to tell the truth. "I'm sorry to disappoint," she replied dryly. "I was thinking about sleeping."

"Sleeping?" he echoed skeptically, an eyebrow arched.

Ginny turned to look at him, holding herself higher. "It's been a long day, I'm tired, and sitting around here waiting for your Inquisitors to judge me is the last thing I want to be doing," she said sharply. "And what's to be judged? Judgment leads to prejudice, and prejudice is one thing this world can do without." _Including,_ she added to herself, _prejudices based on blood._ But it was too early to force that onto him; saying anything now would promise her a position as an outcast from Slytherin society.

To her surprise, Riddle nodded as if impressed. He remained quiet for a moment and Ginny was hopeful that he might leave, but instead he stayed and acknowledged some sort of truth to her words, confusing her even more. She wasn't sure what response she expected to elicit from him, but agreement wasn't it. Then, pressing on, he mused out loud, "I wonder about your philosophy… What, then, would be one thing the world _cannot_ do without?"

Somewhat alarmed and completely shocked by the unexpected question, it took the witch some time to regain composure and think of an answer. After hesitating for a brief moment with her eyes focused on her lap, she began slowly, "The world can't exist with only _one_ thing. It would completely destroy the concept of feng shui. But… I suppose… freedom. Faith, maybe. Intelligence." She paused before raising her gaze to meet him. "Power." She sighed. "But the one thing the world couldn't do without… The one thing would be love."

His face was expressionless, and while Ginny couldn't read his eyes, she could tell he was thinking quickly about her answer. His fingers traced the edges of his sleeve as his brows furrowed deeper, but he made no move to respond. Was she wrong to state love as an answer? Was she rushing to enforce proper values into Riddle too quickly? Her stomach knotted in dismay. She did. She promised herself that she would first gain Riddle's trust and confidence, playing to perfection, before she attempted to press any moral ideas into him.

One day in, and she had already ruined it. Her plan had fallen through.

With a grim smile, Ginny looked away, only to catch the gaze of an Inquisitor. It was then that it struck her – and she let her head rest against the wall with her eyes closed as a hollow laugh escaped her lips.

"That was my question, wasn't it?"

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Within moments, he stood and was gone.

Mere minutes passed before Ginny followed suit, deciding that she was no longer willing to entertain the Inquisitors. She had answered her question, and now they could judge her by her departure. Brandishing her new wand, she marched over to the Slytherin that leaned against the door hiding the girls' dormitories, preventing anyone from passing. "Excuse me," the redhead said with strained politeness, gesturing to the door.

The Slytherin noticed her wand and withdrew his as well, his lips pulling into a smirk. "Aren't you going to stay until the Initiation is over?" he inquired, and Ginny glared at him for the mocking tone she detected underneath his words. Silently, she flicked her wand and blasted the bloke away from the exit.

Ginny grinned triumphantly to herself as she pushed through the door. She might not know how to turn a mouse into a teacup, but she was still more than adept at a decent number of hexes and curses.

Before the door swung shut behind her, Ginny heard cries of shock erupt in the common room.

She didn't care.

She was going to go to bed.

----x----

He had noticed it when her eyes inspected every person in the room but himself, narrowing whenever she discovered an Inquisitor. He had noticed it when her gaze danced from exit to exit, noticing each one was barricaded with a guard. He had noticed it when her eyes widened whenever she struck upon realization… and Tom wasn't the only one.

Ginevra had watched the Inquisitors as the Inquisitors watched the newcomers. Davis, Degree Two, quietly admitted defeat. "I can't ask her any question," he had claimed. "She's pinpointed each and every Inquisitor we've got stationed in this room, and she's bound to be suspicious if I approach her." It had left Tom as the only one remaining qualified to question her.

He had noticed that she was different, from the Sorting to the encounter outside the common room to the Initiation. There was definitely some sort of mystery to her, one that sparked his curiosity. From her lack of a surname, to her wary reactions to…Tom couldn't describe it. There was simply something about her _personality_ that marked her unique, a strange combination of boldness and suspiciousness.

He had noticed it when her hand immediately flew to her wand when he first met her in the corridor, a reaction that didn't occur when she met anyone else. He supposed that was what had peaked his interest in her. Though nothing she did since then diminished his curiosity in any way. On the contrary, every action only encouraged his desire to uncover whatever secret Ginevra held.

He had noticed it when she approached Logan, Rank Five, who guarded the door to the girls' dormitories. Both wielded their wands – an admission to a proper duel in the Slytherin mindset. And it was impossible to miss the way she nonverbally hexed Logan clear across the room to gain entrance.

Tom noticed the way she didn't glance back as the door swung shut. He noticed the way her confidence didn't falter as she walked away.

Ginevra was a powerful witch.

His lips pulled into a smirk as the chaos began. He would play his game of charm, and she would fall into his palm.


	4. Ch 3: Rank

Final Riddles

**IMPORTANT STUFF HERE!**

Um, hi. I know I haven't updated in a while, but I come bearing good news. I finally got around to writing the outline for this story, so now I actually have an idea of where I'm going! There are some things to this story that are AU to the books, naturally. I tried to minimize it as much as possible, but I had to add an extra definition to "Horcrux," because a relationship with a fifty year age difference does not sit well with me. Heh. New addition: when the soul is split from the body, the body doesn't age until the Horcrux has been destroyed or recovered (ie, the body doesn't age if there is a piece of soul floating out there).

**/END IMPORTANT STUFF**

It was hard falling back into tone with this story after such a long hiatus (sorry about that), but here are my attempts. Relatively boring, and for that I apologize; it's more of an informative chapter, to help illustrate the Slytherin atmosphere. Setting the scene, so to say. But enjoy regardless, or waste ten minutes of your life.

There are several amazing people in this world. _Daughter of the Black_ is one of them. Thank you for beta-ing!

For the rest of you, thanks for sticking with me and my inconsistent updates, and thanks for persistently reviewing. Love you :D

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_I am classified,_

_Manmade order testified._

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**Chapter Three: Rank**

"_Ginny, I don't want you at Hogwarts."_

_Her gaze is distracted, head turned toward the window._

"_I don't like what they're teaching you there. If it wasn't required…"_

_A wistful sigh escapes, and her knuckles are whitened as she clenches the bedpost._

"_They're bound to discover that Ron isn't actually ill, and then it won't matter – and then we can take you home."_

_Her voice cracks._

"_We might not always have each other. Our family…"_

_She shakes her head and tries to smile, but her eyes are painfully wet – painfully wet. But she needs to stay strong. She needs to stay strong, for everybody. As they stood strong for her._

"_Just remember what the Order's taught you. Remember how to fight, but remember how to be safe too, okay, Ginny?"_

_There's a knock on the door._

"_My little girl…"_

_And then…_

Green.

Ginny couldn't understand – not at first, at least – why the first color she comprehended was an alarming green. The fragments of her dream evaporated into air as she woke, leaving her alone with her clenched heart. These recurring nightmares – memories – had never blinded her with green before. At least, not after she woke. And then in whispers, threads of the previous night's events strung through her mind: Slytherin. The Sorting, the Initiation, Riddle. And her grandiose exit…

She rolled over, hiding her face in her pillow to muffle a groan as the details of her departure began to replay in her mind. She hadn't wanted to draw such attention to herself. She had told herself that she would strive to be as unnoticeable as possible, as subtle as possible – and within the first day the foundation of her plans had failed. She had been too forward with Riddle when he had asked her that question, and she had been too eager to escape as she –

Bloody hell. She had _hexed_ someone out of her way. Her actions had screamed to be noticed, and despite hope, no one could have possibly overlooked the bloke she had hexed, no, _blasted_ across the room. For a moment, she wondered if she could stay locked up in this room for the remainder of her stay.

But twenty minutes later Ginny was reoriented and entering the common room, where she was startled to find a large crowd amassed in front of the bulletin. Curious, she pushed her way through the throng to find a stapled list of names, her own appearing near the bottom.

"Excuse me, but you're Ginevra… no?"

A voice to her left halted her dissection of the list, which she still did not understand. Turning her head to meet a slender blonde, Ginny smiled in assent.

"Lyra Malfoy, Degree Two," she introduced with a smile of her own. "I'm your roommate. I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself to you earlier. Returned to the dorms a bit late last night."

Ginny hoped the blonde didn't see her falter at the surname. "It's nice to meet you."

"Congratulations, by the way, on Ranking."

Ginny paused, returning her gaze to the bulletin and scanning down the list. There were two columns, one labeled "Degree" and the other "Rank" – and there, beside "Rank Five" was her name: Ginevra.

"Thank you, I suppose, but – "

Before Ginny could get the chance to ask Lyra what ranking meant – and what these _degrees_ and _ranks_ were – Lyra's attention was diverted; and, after her blue eyes widened slightly, she stepped out of the crowd and disappeared. Then almost immediately her spot was replaced by Riddle, who tilted his head ever so slightly to the side in greeting. Her heart dropped. Seeing him reminded her of all the incredibly stupid things she said the day before…

"Congratulations on Ranking, Ginevra. A commendable feat." Nodding toward the exit, he continued with a small smile, "I imagine you're a bit confused. I could show you the school and answer any questions you might have."

_No. I don't trust you._ With a smile of her own, Ginny repressed her thoughts and answered, "That would be excellent. Thank you."

She followed him as he led the way to the exit, her eyes scrolling along his frame, trying to decipher him. He was tall and thin, a structure that would have been described as lanky except for the aura he carried that commanded power and authority. And then his movements – he strode as if he constructed the world from its limbs and knew its secrets. He stood straight, shoulders broad, and for all the effortless grace he seemed to possess there was something undeniably tense about him, muscles taut in expectation of attack.

She had been so stupid when she was eleven. There was nothing seemingly safe about him that could have fooled her. He exuded a dangerous presence, but perhaps that was part of the reason she had been so captivated by him then.

Distracted by her observations, she barely noticed that he had stopped and turned to face her. "It will be difficult to communicate if you continue to trail behind," he noted, an eyebrow arched.

Blushing, Ginny hurried to catch up to him. The close proximity to him caused the hairs on the back of her neck bristle, and she fought to calm her pounding heart. "I'm sorry that my short legs inconvenience you."

He merely smiled slightly in response. "Have you received your schedule yet?"

Ginny reached for the slip of paper she had crammed into the side of her bag, hoping her pseudo confidence would mask her anxiety. "Yes," she answered, unfolding it. "Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Herbology." Only a couple weeks ago, she toyed with the idea of taking Muggle Studies, simply to defy Riddle – but in the end, she had decided against having six classes.

"All NEWT level?"

She nodded. "So I can fail with dignity," she proclaimed with a dramatic sigh.

"An exaggeration, I wager." He looked sideways at her.

"Well," Ginny acceded slowly, "maybe only Potions. And Charms. And Transfiguration. And Herbology. So no, not quite an exaggeration." Riddle cast an amused glance at her as they rounded a corner, and impulsively, Ginny continued, "I thought about taking Muggle Studies – Muggles are simply fascinating – but I was afraid that six classes would be overwhelming."

"Pity," Riddle commented, and Ginny almost tripped when hearing a lack of sarcasm in his tone. "There is much that wizards can learn from Muggles. It's a shame that many don't seem to understand this."

She cast a quick glance at him, but Riddle's face was as expressionless as ever. His words, however, contradicted the very character she knew him to possess; he could only be pretending. She wouldn't fall for his elegant words a second time. She refused to.

But why? Why would he bother with such a pretense? He had wanted her soul last time… Her heart both yearned and trembled to know what it was that he wanted from her now to elicit this amiable pretense from him.

"I should warn you. This viewpoint isn't shared by the majority of the Slytherin house." His eyes were penetrating, and Ginny turned her gaze to the floor. She could hear him exhale slightly beside her – maybe in the form of a sigh, or a silent laugh. In a softer voice, he continued, "I would advise you to keep this perspective a secret."

Ginny nodded slowly, keeping her eyes focused before her, afraid to meet his eyes. She had barely heard what he had said, alarmed by his intense gaze that left her chest ablaze, and a single word floated through her mind - _Legilimency_. The art of detecting lies, interpreting thoughts, absorbing memories, and creating illusions. The subject of many conversations at the Order headquarters, she suddenly recalled.

Here was a man who would one day be able to read memories and instill imaginings into the mind – and if he could do so now at seventeen…

"Are you feeling all right?" Riddle's question interrupted her internal monologue.

Surprised and caught off guard, Ginny blinked rapidly and began to look up at him before recalling his skill and pulled away. "Yeah, err, sorry," she said, gaze flickering to the floor once more. "I just – well, I just thought what you said was a bit odd."

If he found her actions to be strange, he didn't show it. "Odd?" he echoed. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Ginny tried, playing with a lock of hair and praying that her bullshitting skills were still intact, "I thought Slytherin was a house for the cunning and ambitious. For people who are supposedly cunning… well, how can they be innovative if they're biased? I mean…" She hesitated, searching for words in her head. "Cunning. Ambitious. Yeah, I get that – but when you're biased, that's a whole lot of roads that are closed to you, you know? No matter how ambitious you are. You would think the ambitious would want more paths open to them, but as it is…" She shrugged. "Sounds like predestined failure to me."

"On the contrary, Slytherins are generally of the wealthiest families in comparison," Riddle informed her. "Despite bias, they have managed quite successfully."

Ginny snorted. "Through questionable means, I bet."

The corners of Riddle's lips lifted upwards. "As I said – they have managed to be quite successful," he carefully maintained.

"But think of all they could accomplish if they _removed_ bias," Ginny protested. In her mind, she could see her father returning home for dinner, clapping his hands loudly and rubbing them together in excitement. _Guess what I learned?_ he had stated. _Muggle weapons! Wipe out a whole city, destroy their land, and all in a matter of seconds, while we've only got the Avada! They could blow up the planet if they wanted to! And those who practice the Dark Arts find themselves superior? Ha!_ And then her mother bustling in with a furious frown, arguing how he should not be implanting ideas of mass destruction into their children's brains…

"Continue," Riddle beckoned, and his voice brought Ginny back from her memories as her stomach twisted somewhat painfully.

"Right." She nodded, swallowing to ease her clenched throat. "Prejudice inhibits and obscures opportunity, and – " She broke off with a frown. "I feel like we've already had this conversation. Yesterday." She didn't want to belabor the point too early on for fear of ostracizing herself from him.

"Something similar," Riddle agreed. He paused for a moment before adding, "Bias is their weakness. An open flaw they can be manipulated with, and still they will stringently cling onto this fault, even in failing."

Ginny nodded apprehensively, uncertain of how to respond. Discomforted by the mindset that Riddle had painted, she allowed the conversation to lapse into silence, staring unwaveringly ahead. But without conversation to distract her, Riddle's presence was more daunting than ever.

She was afraid of him. She was just stupid enough to willingly approach the predator. The bravery that the Sorting Hat had gone on about yesterday, she decided, had nothing to do with it.

They remained quiet until they reached the doors of the Great Hall. Stopping, Riddle inquired, "Are you hungry?"

Ginny shook her head; her appetite was nothing near what it once was, and considering the monstrous portions she used to eat, she doubted it would ever be. "No."

"Would you like to stop for breakfast anyways?"

"Not really." The kitchens would always offer food later in the day if she later changed her mind. Then, as an afterthought, she added, "But if you want to, I'll come along."

"In which case," Riddle followed smoothly, "we should continue with the tour."

She hesitated. Even if she despised him, Ginny felt somewhat guilty for stripping him of a meal. "Well, are you hungry?" she asked, repeating his question to him.

He smiled slightly as if he were patiently enduring. "We will continue with the tour."

Ginny frowned; she had noticed how Riddle had not directly answered her, neglecting to respond whether or not he was full. Briefly, she wondered if Riddle even ate at all. Eating was something entirely too normal and mundane for her to imagine the future Lord Voldemort to engage in.

"What class do you have first?" Riddle asked, gesturing to the piece of parchment containing her courses that she had shoved back into her bag.

"Transfiguration." She had been excited to have her first class with Dumbledore as the teacher.

Riddle nodded slowly. "I could show you the way there." He left his sentence trailing off, and Ginny could taste the words he had left unsaid: _Or did the portraits show you where that classroom was, too?_

She blushed and resisted the childish urge to step on his feet. "Mm," she hummed noncommittally. "What's the teacher like?"

He arched an eyebrow, noting how she had avoided his question – and Ginny knew he wouldn't let it go. "Would you like me to show you the way there?" he reiterated.

Ginny frowned. "You know," she commented dryly, "most people would take the social cue and realize I'd rather not answer and then drop the subject. And voila – awkwardness is averted and my pride is saved."

He looked mildly bemused. "What pride would you lose by answering such a simple question?"

_Merlin_, Ginny thought with dread. _It wasn't even a question. It was a damn statement._ He really wanted to humiliate her, didn't he? "Never mind. Forget it."

He turned his head to observe her with a level gaze; she felt ill at ease and vulnerable under his scrutiny, though she knew he was not using legilimency. "You avoided the question again."

"Well," Ginny retorted, resisting the urge to shift uncomfortably, "you avoided my question earlier when I asked you if you were hungry." She straightened indignantly. "Just as simple of a question, if not more so." There was a moment's pause before she continued, "And if you don't remember, I let this avoidance simply drop without comment, because _I_ can take a social cue." And as she paused to reflect on it, Ginny realized both personal questions she had asked had not been answered. They were simple – one asking his opinion on Dumbledore, and the other merely asking whether or not he was _hungry_ – but they were personal questions, and they had both been avoided.

_The best lies are partial truths_, she suddenly remembered Fred and George telling her. They told her unnecessary lies created unnecessary complications.

Riddle's lies were just that: deceptive truths. He evaded from sharing with her personal information when he didn't need to so that he could avoid telling blatant lies – and maybe he reckoned that the less she actually knew about him, the better.

Come to think, he had always been like this. Even in the diary. Some things he told her… But everything he had said held only one objective: to garner her trust so he could leech off her soul. And there were so many more things she had asked that he _didn't_ answer, that he glossed over…

With dismay, Ginny wondered if she even knew Tom Riddle at all; if everything she knew of him was only a façade, like the one he was currently playing.

"Questions are tactless," Riddle commented nonchalantly.

Ginny scowled. "You've been asking me nothing but questions this whole time."

"And you answered."

"And _you _got on my case when I didn't."

He furrowed his brows for a moment in contemplation before inquiring, "What do you know of the Slytherin rank system?"

She frowned at him. "Questions are tactless," she returned.

"Everyone is sorted into a rank in Slytherin based on performance during the Initiation," Riddle explained, ignoring her input. Ginny blinked; so she had been correct yesterday in supposing that the Inquisitors were essentially character judges. "There are three categories. Four, actually. Mud Dregs, Dregs, Degrees, and Ranks. Those of the lowest quality are sorted as Mud Dregs – that is, they fall short of even Muggleborns, a remarkable feat to the typical Slytherin, who believes nothing is worse than a Muggleborn. Above them would be simply – the Dregs. These are the dregs of society, but still considered better than most of those of other houses.

"Most are sorted into Degrees, ranging from Degree Ten to Degree One, Degree One being the most influential and Degree Ten being the least. The greater portion of Slytherin fall in place at Degree Five, so those at Degrees Three, Two, and One generally command greater power.

"Of utmost importance, however, are the Ranks. Seven members total - one each in the positions of Ranks One, Two, and Three, and two each in the positions of Ranks Four and Five." He paused and captured her gaze; Ginny returned it through furrowed brows. "Seven," he emphasized, "Slytherins out of the entire house hold Ranking positions, and they make up the Council that governs the others."

She didn't understand why he was informing her of the ranking system now. While the explanation was much needed, the change in topics was a little too sudden.

Briefly she wondered what rank Riddle would be. She assumed he would be among the elite; higher than her, no doubt. Was he discreetly demonstrating that she should defer to him, because he was of a higher rank? She recalled the manner in which Malfoy had withdrawn from the crowd; did he expect her to do the same?

Was that it? He was just clarifying why he could ask questions and she couldn't – and why she shouldn't talk back. Ginny frowned. _Prat_.

"The Council wields the power," Riddle continued; his voice had grown lower. "I should tell you – these Rank positions are envied. No Newcomer before has ever Ranked. Many will consider you to be a transient Council member because you are a Newcomer and expect you to be defeated soon. In fact, many will try to be the one to defeat you. You must guard your position closely."

Ginny frowned. "So check my pumpkin juice for poisons?" When Riddle didn't respond, she grimaced. _Excellent,_ she mused._ Welcome to Slytherin._ For a moment, she questioned why she refused to let the Sorting Hat place her in Gryffindor.

"Council members are made when they are elected or when defeated. You've been made Council member for defeating Logan, previously Rank Five, now Degree Two." From the tone of his voice, Ginny assumed that Logan – presumably the bloke she had blasted across the room – would be the one to fight the hardest to regain his position. "However," Riddle continued, "they might try anything to weaken you."

"A bit desperate, aren't they?" Ginny commented. The situation vaguely reminded of one of Beetle the Bard's tales she was once read…

Riddle tilted his head to the side. "Perhaps. But this is the cost of power."

_What, paranoia?_ Ginny coughed. If constant fear and suspicion were the price to pay, she would rather sacrifice her title. She had lived through a time where paranoia reeled minds and trust crumbled – and so had life and humanity. Those moments were painful, intelligence fraying into insanity as alarm soared high with those goddamn warning bells that were constantly going off, and the grandfather clock back in the Burrow that turned all its hands to _Mortal Peril_, and slowly – slowly – those hands were removed – first Fred, then Percy, then Dad, then –

Her torso constricted slightly and suddenly it was hard to breathe. She shut her eyes in an attempt to prevent tears from leaking, but she couldn't prevent the images that flooded her mind… And she was standing next to the sick bastard who was the source of it all, speaking so indifferently of power politics…

"You look ill. Do you need to go to the Hospital Wing?"

Ginny snapped her eyes open and shook her head, quickly brushing away the tears. "No, I'm fine. I just… menstrual cramps," she offered weakly. She swallowed, clenching her jaw. "It's better now."

She almost laughed at seeing him nod sharply, a shadow of discomfort flitting across his face. _She_ had never had the upper hand, and she relished the moment of seeing the Dark Lord in unease. Still, she was eager to change the subject before Riddle could over-think her response and question the validity of the statement.

"However," Ginny began, perhaps a little too loudly, "the school already has a prefect system to govern students. Why would the Slytherin house have its own additional system?"

He smiled tightly. "Even Muggleborns can make prefects and heads. Do you expect the prejudiced portion of Slytherin to obey them? Slytherins are naturally elitist."

Ginny paused, running a hand through her hair. None of this made sense. "What about the Slytherin prefects? And Slytherin heads?"

"Slytherin prefects are generally at least ranked at Degree Two and therefore already command respect from the community," Riddle informed her. "But a Slytherin ranked at substandard levels would be ignored, even if they were a prefect."

_Stupid_, Ginny thought, but she remained silent. She much preferred Gryffindor's familial atmosphere; Slytherin's hierarchy, she found, was born to breed a feeling of self-importance – or, recalling the timid nature of her new roommate, self-insignificance.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

Perhaps he could sense her emotions, for his next comment was one of a separate topic entirely. "Ginevra," he mused aloud, trying her name. "No surname to accompany it?"

"No," Ginny responded shortly.

"Hm," Riddle noted. "You don't offer much choice, do you?"

Ginny frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Friends, enemies, superiors, inferiors… they all must call you Ginevra." Tom paused, considering the idea for a moment. "No choice between given name or familial name."

_He's asking why_, Ginny realized, _without using "tactless" questions_. Petulantly, she decided she would not give him the desired answer. "Well, inferiors could always just call me _Master_."

"An original title." His eyes caught hers.

His eyes were blue. Piercing. _Legilimincy – _and that haunting word scuttled through her mind. Alarmed, Ginny turned away. Would he be able to read the truth from her mind? Read her history? Perhaps it _would_ be better to share her cover story and divert his attention. Let him think her a simpleton for answering his queries. And then maybe he would even underestimate her.

"But honestly, I would like to have a surname." She looked down, playing with the edge of her green and silver tie, attempting to create a weak character. "It would be nice to feel like I _belong_ somewhere."

She could feel his intense gaze bearing down upon her. "A surname doesn't always represent a home. Some might argue that it's a ruthless label forced upon them."

Ginny looked up, surprised. "Why would anyone think that?" There was nothing she loved more than her family and the courage they fought with. Perhaps once she was ashamed of the "Weasley" name, but she was ignorant then. Immature, concerned only with material wealth.

"Why would you think as _you_ do?" Riddle returned.

Faltering, the redhead shrugged, timidly tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I… I was found an orphan," she explained quietly. It wasn't a lie, she realized with pain – she had been an orphan when found by Dumbledore and Dippet. And suddenly, she didn't need to fake the crack in her voice. "I've always wanted a surname. To have a surname – that would be like saying, I'm from somewhere. I might not know where I'm going, but I know I came from someplace that matters." She smiled wistfully. "I wish I could say that."

"Sometimes it's better not to know," Riddle murmured, almost inaudibly. He came to a stop and gestured to an adjacent door. "This is the Transfiguration classroom. Class should start in a little while."

Ginny nodded and hugged her books a little tighter. "All right, thank you." Hurriedly she slid behind the door, her heart hammering in mourning.

She wasn't mourning because she didn't have a surname. She mourned, because she couldn't have one.

She couldn't have the one thing she was proud of.

As she slipped into a seat, Ginny absently rubbed her left forearm, wondering what he meant when he said it was better not to know.


	5. Ch 4: Gossip

Final Riddles

So this came out a month late, considering I meant to get this out before I went to a german camp thing. Haha, really, really sorry. And it's a pretty lame chapter. No Riddle action, alas, but I'll appreciate any reviews you send my way.

It's also the **first new chapter!** In that this was not seen in the previous versions. It's here that the story splits from the original. So is that exciting, or is that exciting?

Thanks to all my reviewers last chapter, and I think I tried again to review reply everyone and I think I failed again. But most of all, thanks to my awesomesauce beta **Daughter of the Black** :D

Enjoy and review!

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_I can pierce walls and tear hearts,_

_Destroy friendships and build war._

_I am whispered vengeance in art_

_Already told in words before._

**

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Chapter 4: Gossip**

_It's difficult, sometimes, to pretend like a part of you hasn't been ripped away._

Ginny first experienced such agonies after her first year – to pretend as if everything was damn perfect, like she was never manipulated out of her soul, like she was never near death. But she still had spirit and she still had family, and she found she could live again, breathe again, and she could love life again.

Then mercy suddenly spiraled out of view and her spirit was devoured and her family destroyed, and there was nothing left but crust.

_Sometimes the weight compounds all at once._

The first day Madame Frost allowed her to tour the building alone, she had leapt off her bed and ran to each familiar classroom and cried; and once her tears had dried, she would stand and head to the next classroom, where the memories would again crush her into weeping once more. She had hoped to conquer the emotions raging in her stomach so she would be stronger when school began and she wouldn't burst into tears when class begun. Perhaps it had helped, but seeing a classroom of both strange and almost-familiar faces made her consider how _wrong_ it all was, and it pained her.

She tried to push back her thoughts and clear her mind, but still that mournful voice slipped through, insisting that the seat to her left should be Luna's seat, and not that of an anonymous dark haired Slytherin. Staring stonily ahead, Ginny barely heard Dumbledore pronounce the incantation to whatever spell they were to attempt today – which appeared to transfigure their textbooks into hats.

"A simple incantation," he beamed jovially, "one you all should remember from third year."

"But, Professor Dumbledore?" inquired a Hufflepuff toward the back of the room. "Why are we transfiguring our _textbooks_?"

Dumbledore tilted his head to the side as if in thought... as if he himself did not know the answer. "Entertainment?" he guessed. "Insanity?"

"Definitely that one," casually muttered the boy to Ginny's left, stretching back in his chair.

"Well, Miss Fridock, I am hoping the activity will be entertaining enough to counteract the countless introductions you are bound to suffer through in other classes on your first day of school," Dumbledore explained in an amused, benign manner. "And if one is incapable of transfiguring his or her textbook back – well, that person will be much happier with a pretty hat, I'm sure."

He smiled spreading his palms, welcoming the class to begin their incantations. Ginny frowned. She had been so concentrated on preventing tears from leaking that she had forgotten to listen to the lecture.

"Mademoiselle Ginevra?" A spirited voice interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to face the Slytherin who occupied Luna's seat – one of the "almost-familiar" faces in the crowd; one she could almost remember but couldn't place.

"Yeah?"

He smiled. It wasn't the way Riddle smiled– courteous, lips closed, amusement that didn't reach his eyes. Rather, this boy's charm was more energetic… more lively, with a roguish grin that brought forth a slight blush to Ginny's cheeks.

"Je m'apelle Etienne Zabini, le chevaleresque – at your service," he introduced in a thick accent though she had heard him speak with a perfect English accent moments before. He stood and offered a sweeping bow in jest. "You are beautiful, ma cherie."

"Zabini?" Ginny echoed. She vaguely recalled a figure from her own time with the same name, though she couldn't recollect the features against the backdrop of what seemed to be one of Slughorn's parties. "I didn't know that was a French name," she mused aloud. It sounded Italian.

"Eh, it eez now," he grinned with the pseudo accent that – _Merlin, stop this, Ginny!_ – reminded her of Ron's impressions of Fleur.

She regretted having once called the French veela Phlegm.

"I saw that you Ranked," Zabini commented, lounging in his chair and ignoring Dumbledore's assignment, his proper British accent restored. "Congratulations, my new partner in crime."

"Partner in crime?" Ginny repeated with a frown.

He nodded. "Etienne Zabini, Rank Five," he said, including his proper epithet. "As the two Rank Five members of the Council, we'll be seated together during meetings. I daresay you'll be the first Newcomer who's made it… and perhaps the first girl."

"To make the Council?"

"Yeah, to make the council. What's with the echoing?" Zabini grinned. "Haven't got the brains to match up with the power of that hex you threw last night, eh?"

Heat flared in Ginny's cheeks. "_Sorry_," she retorted scathingly. "Must be something in the environment." After sending him a pointed glare, she slammed open her books and roughly flipped through the pages, trying to find the incantation Dumbledore had gone on about.

"Must be the Hufflepuffs," Zabini agreed. "Not that I blame you – I can feel my own IQ dropping whenever I'm around them, too."

She opened her mouth to heatedly snap a defense for the Hufflepuffs before she noticed his teasing smile. _He's joking_, Ginny realized. It had been so long since she'd been so carefree herself, easy-going and tossing out nonsense _just for fun_.

Just for fun. The concept seemed so regretfully foreign now.

"Mr Zabini, the spell, if you don't mind," interrupted a new voice. Ginny looked up to find Dumbledore's blue eyes fixed upon Zabini's textbook.

"Of course," the Slytherin said, removing his wand from within his robes, spinning it along his fingers with a flourish before casting the spell.

"Excellent, thank you. And Miss Ginevra, if you'd be so kind," Dumbledore continued, turning toward her.

Ginny nodded mutely before retrieving her own wand, trying to imitate the incantation Zabini had said. In the end, the pages of her textbook only fluttered slightly before stilling, looking as much like a textbook as ever and nothing like a hat.

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. It was a stupid spell, anyways. When would she ever need to turn a textbook into a hat?

"Miss Ginevra, please stay after class for a couple moments. I'd like to discuss something with you," Dumbledore noted. Ginny nodded before lifting her gaze to meet his, and she realized there was more he wished to talk about than her poor performance.

And maybe – Ginny suddenly realized with a twinkling hope – she could ask him to teach her a bit of occlumency to fend off Riddle?

"And Miss Regàle, if you could demonstrate – " Dumbledore continued onto the next row, his attention focused elsewhere. Ginny hummed slightly as she fingered the spine of her textbook, wondering how she could word her request later.

"You can duel Logan and knock him out for a couple minutes with one nonverbal hex, but you can't turn your textbook into a hat?" Zabini asked, mildly amused.

"That's a useless skill," Ginny muttered, prodding her textbook grudgingly with her wand. "Turning a textbook into a hat, I mean."

He laughed. Ginny liked the sound of it; it was full and lively, the sort that made her want to laugh, too. "One day," Zabini told her, "you'll be locked up in a library naked and you'll decide you want to wear a hat – "

"I'm sure I'll find a book in that library about how to transfigure clothing," Ginny interrupted dryly, arching an eyebrow. "And wearing a hat would be the last thing I'd think about if I were to wake up naked somewhere."

"Well, everyone's different," he allowed slowly before looking steadily at her. "Some more different than others."

Ginny scoffed. "You're telling me that the first thing you'd do after waking up naked is to transfigure yourself a hat. Now tell me how _you_ managed to Rank?"

He grinned and held a finger to his lips. "It's a secret," he whispered before changing the subject.

And again, another personal question had been deflected. Slytherin, Ginny decided, was a nest of strangers.

"I'm still confused," Ginny admitted, "about the Council. I was told it exists to govern other students – but does a house really need a _government_?"

Zabini shrugged easily, leisurely twirling his wand on his fingertips. "Would you rather have a mob rule? Anarchy, perhaps? Total chaos, maybe."

Ginny sniffed. "I'd wager a house is small enough to exist peacefully without government."

"Other houses, maybe," Zabini acceded. "But not in a house for the ambitious. Everyone wants to be on top, so the ranking system was formed to clarify everyone's place in society and to objectify the rank of number one. So a government's needed to maintain order with all this scheming to topple over some arrogant jerk you hate who's ranked above you."

"_Or_," Ginny proposed insistently, "you could forgo the ranking system entirely and let everyone coexist in the peaceful mindset of not knowing."

"But that's no fun at all," Zabini pointed out.

_Because checking to make sure every morsel of pumpkin pie served on my plate isn't poisoned sounds like my idea of fun_, Ginny thought, but she contained her sarcasm. She knew the Slytherin would just wave away her point, claiming it to be a minor fault. Or perhaps they'd even claim that such paranoia was _part _of the fun. Instead, she questioned, "So what are the purposes of the Council?"

"Well, mostly, we decide who goes up in rank and who drops," he informed nonchalantly. "We basically control the hierarchy, so everyone wants to get on our good side."

"Sounds corrupted," Ginny mused. And unbalanced, with too much power focused at one elitist group.

Zabini let out a small breath of a laugh. "Some of us are," he agreed vaguely. "In the end, it's all the same. Because if you went up in rank, it means you _did_ something to make you rise – be it bribery or genuine talent or whatnot – and it means you were successful. Which means you probably deserve your increased rank anyways."

Ginny snorted. "That's the most ludicrous piece of circular logic I've ever heard."

"Works in the inverse, too," Zabini said with a smile. "If you tried to bribe someone and they don't like you and they decide to drop your rank instead, you deserve it because you're a failure. Or if your rank just dropped because the Council's got something against you. Then it means that you've got no common sense and don't know how to play power politics to win the favor of those in power."

Silence trickled in as Ginny tried to understand the backward logic Zabini had just illustrated. It all seemed so pointless – but then again, everything seemed pointless to her these days.

But worst of all, this type of pointless was also dangerous. It bred hidden ills between people that would only escalate until erupting.

"Quiz me."

Ginny blinked, surprised. "Sorry?"

"As Council members, it's our duty to know everyone in the house and know what's going on at all times. Pick someone, anyone, and I'll tell you their dirty past," Zabini explained.

Ginny faltered, uncertain. "All right…" she said slowly. She didn't want to know anyone's dirty past; it wasn't her business. She wasn't the Romilda Vane sort of girl, who seemed to only be able to process gossip. But this was her new environment, and Ginny decided it would be better for her to understand where Riddle came from if she was going to change him at all.

Scrolling across the room, Ginny finally selected a brunette sitting in the front row. "There, third seat to the left," Ginny said in an undertone.

Zabini sent a quick, discrete glance toward that direction. "Emmy Vaughn, Degree Three," Zabini muttered. "Actually not half bad at academics but pretends to be a dunce so people will underestimate her. She's got about a good three fourths or so of Slytherin fooled, if not more. Gets people in power to tutor her to spend time with them, and that's when she pulls out her charm." He chuckled. "Has a messy dating history, too. Half the guys she dated dropped in rank immediately after they broke up, and a third of those dropped to the Dreg level. The other half of the time, _she_ rose in rank after they broke up. Lost her virginity in her third year to some bloke who has since graduated. That bloke was one of the only ones who ever dumped her. Kind of messed her up, I think. He was her first the scheming flirt nowadays, you see, and very successful – especially considering that she was placed at Degree Ten at the Initiation." He nodded, satisfied.

Ginny looked up at the girl, alarmed. The brunette had seemed so innocent, albeit ditzy, flipping her hair over a shoulder and giggling carelessly with a friend. With this rundown that Zabini was providing her with, Ginny was beginning to suspect that Riddle wasn't an anomaly at all. He was just _better_ at the game than anyone else – and more powerful, too.

Merlin. How in the world was she supposed to change Riddle when his entire house needed counseling?

_But then_, Ginny reminded herself, _Riddle is a murderer._ He was an anomaly – a terrible one.

"Another one," Zabini demanded.

She didn't want to hear anymore, but she complied and scanned the room once more. Suddenly, she remembered about the frail girl in her dorm she had been curious about. The timid one. Surely there could be nothing bad to say about her?

"That one girl," Ginny started. "Light, almost silver hair. Starts with an… _E_, I think. Sixth year. …Ellen? No, it was three syllables. Oh, Emm – no, Emmy was the one you just mentioned. E…"

"Evalis?" Zabini supplied, his brows furrowed as he regarded Ginny with a cautionary stare.

Ginny nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, that's the one!" But she hesitated when she saw that his easy smile had dissipated for the slightest of moments.

"Mm, sad girl, that, but nothing interesting. She's a Mud Dreg, not much to talk about. Mud Dregs are the least interesting of the lot." His speech was calm and flippant, but Ginny didn't believe him. The pitying look he wore for that split second told her that Evalis was a girl who fell far and fell hard. And if the girl's story was enough to garner pity from a Slytherin who spoke so dismissively about another girl's heart being crushed after being used by her first boyfriend…

They were hardened, the lot of them. Shells of statues. And it pained her to see how easily the Slytherins took their power game in stride starting at such a young age as she saw the consequences every time she closed her eyes.

_Rapid breathing – a dribble of something cool sliding down her back – a haunted face – _

"Try another," Zabini said, pulling her away from her thoughts. "Pick a more interesting one this time."

Slowly, Ginny opened her eyes, inhaling deeply. An idea suddenly struck as she stared at him levelly. "Me."

His eyes widened ever so slightly beneath arched brows. "You?"

The redhead nodded, a taunting grin playing at her lips. "Since you're so proud on your deciphering skills – tell me what you've concluded about me in the past day."

Zabini smiled. "I like you," he decided.

"If that's your only answer," Ginny commented smoothly, folding her arms, "I'm sorely disappointed."

The Slytherin nodded slowly, taking his time before surrendering his thoughts. "You," he began carefully, his eyes slightly narrowed as he searched for words, "are a mystery. I'd wager you're hiding some traumatizing history, and that you're a good storyteller."

"A good storyteller?" Ginny echoed. "You mean, a liar?"

"Again with the echoing," Zabini said with a small grin. "And no, I meant storyteller."

Ginny could taste a thousand more burning theories about her that Zabini kept imprisoned in his mind, and Ginny wasn't sure if she wanted to know how much of her he had already dissected.

-x-

"Professor?" Ginny approached his desk at the front of the classroom. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I did," Dumbledore agreed. "In my office, if you don't mind. Allow me to set these textbooks aside first, and I shall join you momentarily."

Ginny nodded and complied, choosing a comfortable lavender seat that leaned against a towering bookcase filled with miscellaneous ornaments. A fire burned behind a large mahogany desk, with papers stacked neatly upon it and a bird propped –

Ginny faltered as she stood and advanced toward the brightly colored phoenix. Whispered words scrolled through her mind – _Holly wood, core of a phoenix feather. That phoenix gave one other feather for a wand. Voldemort and I – we have the only two wands with Fawkes' feathers. Brother wands, really._

"Fawkes?" Ginny numbly reached out toward the bird.

At that moment, Dumbledore strode into the room, and Ginny quickly retrieved her hand. "Miss Ginevra," he smiled. "I see you've met Fawkes."

"Yes," she agreed hastily, awkwardly placing her hands behind her back. "He's lovely."

"Phoenixes… magical, powerful creatures. A fascinating subject, but not for us today." Dumbledore gestured to a chair, drawing out another chair for himself. "Please, take a seat. Lemon drop?"

Ginny smiled tightly as a stitch in her side throbbed. With a quick glance at the grandfather clock, Ginny saw that she was due for another potion from Madame Frost in half an hour. "No, thank you."

"Ah, well, then." Dumbledore put the jar of lemon drops away. "First, might I ask – is there anything you'd like to tell me? Anything at all?"

"No," Ginny said quickly before faltering slightly. "Actually, I was wondering – " she started before biting her lip, searching for a way to word her inquiry without blatantly advertising her intent. "I mean, school's started and sometimes it's hard to focus on something – like studying, for instance – or even just sleeping, really, when there are too many… bottled emotions and memories in the way." She paused. "I was wondering if there was a method, maybe, to help me clear my mind from time to time. – "

"Something like occlumency?" Dumbledore regarded her for a moment. "Yes, I can see how that can be beneficial."

"So you can help me?" Ginny looked up hopefully.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "Yes, I can."

A breath of relief escaped. "Thank you."

"Now," Dumbledore continued. "The matter I called you in for. I must inform you that – though you are an extremely talented witch – you are not yet up to par with this NEWT level class, and now that the school year has begun, I cannot continue to tutor you."

Ginny nodded, frowning. Though she knew she hadn't reached the level of her classmates and had been expecting something like this, dread still filled her stomach. "I understand, sir. Does this mean I'll be removed from the class?"

"No, nothing like that at all," Dumbledore corrected. "I believe you are quite capable of what we will learn in this class, but you'll need help getting started." Shuffling through a couple pieces of parchment laid neatly upon his desk, he continued, "Which is why I've found you a tutor. She's newly graduated from Hogwarts and is studying as a student teacher. A very talented witch."

"What's her name," Ginny asked tentatively.

"Minerva McGonagall." Dumbledore smiled. "That's all I have to say for now, Ginny, unless you have anything else you'd like to tell me? If not, I shall see you Saturday after dinner for your first occlumency lesson."

And only later did Ginny question her decision to take occlumency lessons with Dumbledore, who had far greater powers in Legilimincy than Riddle as of yet.

What would he see?

* * *

Review, bitte :3


	6. Ch 5: Council

Final Riddles

First of all, let's applaud Daughter of the Black for being an amazing beta. Then let's promptly pretend I don't exist for having held back a chapter I (cough) had mostly finished in (cough) November because (cough) …well…

But don't let that stop you from reviewing XDD This time I'll try harder to review reply everyone. (Thing is, I respond in my head but I'm too lazy to type my response and it ends up never happening… ha… my bad…)

Do enjoy. Also do review. Hopefully the next chapter will come out in a short bit.

* * *

_Seek my wisdom,_

_Seek my guide_

_For I have power –_

_Who am I?_

* * *

**Chapter Five: Council**

_Cold. Not only the temperature, but also the atmosphere – slicing, consuming, compounded by the indifferent stone walls that fortified her prison._

_And then cackling – a sort of wheezing, insane laughter, reverberating in air too accustomed to stillness, thundering footsteps drumming its beat._

"_We're ready for you, Miss Weasley."_

_A distorted face peers at her, and she smells something decaying. And suddenly that face is pulled away from her vision, thrown back in another fit of laughter._

"_Ain't that precious – when that Potter finds out his little girlfriend's gone and received a mark on her forearm?"_

_His head sways up and down, up and down, as he releases the last of his chuckles._

"_Aye, ain't that precious."_

Ginny's eyes snapped open as she rolled over immediately before the pain in her left forearm, that resounded throughout her body, compelled her to squeeze her eyes shut again. Gasping, she stumbled out of bed, groping blindly for the potions Madame Frost had sent her.

Her fingers finally closed around a cool glass bottle, and she shakily pulled the cork before quickly downing the thick blue liquid. Raggedly, Ginny breathed in, letting her eyes drift closed as she rested her head upon the bed frame, the pulsing pain diminishing to a dull ache.

Time to prepare for another day.

-x-

"You've completed your first week at Hogwarts," a voice commented. "Congratulations."

Ginny looked up from her breakfast to find Tom Riddle sliding into the seat beside her. "Thank you," she replied stiffly. She hated meeting him in mornings, fresh after dreams recounting memories of a snake-like face and a green-eyed boy. They left a lingering feeling of disgust and horror in the pit of her stomach that doubled at the sight of Riddle's flawless – and _human_ – appearance.

"I heard you performed spectacularly in Defense," Riddle continued, his gaze flickering toward the table as he helped himself to a bread roll. Ginny still found this disconcerting – him, eating, with the basic needs of every other witch or wizard. In her mind, he was personified as _You-Know-Who_, a nameless godlike figure above needing the normal necessities of life.

Ginny shrugged. "I'm curious about your sources. They must have had low expectations of me." Not that she would be surprised if that were the case – she had performed absolutely abysmally in all her other classes.

But that was hardly her fault. The teachers chose to lecture on useless materials. Why charming animals to sing was part of the curriculum was beyond her.

"The Bat-Bogey Hex is an interesting choice," Riddle mused.

The redhead pursed her lips, and the knife slipped off the toast she had been buttering and scraped along her finger. Cursing under her breath, Ginny held the wounded digit to her lips.

Riddle looked amused. "I can heal that."

"No need." Ginny shot him an annoyed look and held her thumb up for him to see. "It's not even bleeding, just tender. You can wipe off that smirk right about now."

He arched an eyebrow and thankfully, remained silent, returning to his breakfast. Ginny didn't want to talk about how she had reacted to hearing two Slytherin girls gossiping in the back, sharing dirty secrets they had heard about specific muggleborns in the school. She knew she had overreacted, but hearing some of the traits the girls had listed reminded her too much of friends, now deceased, and before she realized it, there was a flash of light, a swarm of bats, and Ginny found that she had withdrawn her wand.

The professor had allowed it to slide. "I understand from both the headmaster and Madame Frost that you're still adjusting and recovering from shock, that you may be… a little unbalanced, shall we say, for lack of a better word," he had said. "I'll excuse you now, but I don't want to see such unprovoked action from you again."

_Unprovoked, my arse. _Ginny snorted and gripped the knife in her hand tighter.

"The first Council meeting is this afternoon."

Ginny snapped out of her thoughts. "Sorry?" She blinked. "This afternoon?" It was Saturday. She had that meeting with Dumbledore after dinner, and she planned on a quiet afternoon to save her energy. Preferably, in a nice, comfortable bed.

"At two," Riddle continued, "meet me by the painting of Sir Rilbous, and I'll take you there."

"Right." Ginny had no idea who Sir Rilbous was, let alone where his portrait would be. "How long do the meetings normally take?" She'd have to ask other portraits about it, Ginny decided. She refused to succumb and ask Riddle for directions, thanks to an overdose of pride.

"I would clear my entire afternoon, until dinner time." He was watching her with humored eyes, and Ginny wondered exactly what he found funny.

She found out soon enough.

After lunch, when she asked several portraits about Sir Rilbous, Ginny finally received an answer from a wizened wizard wearing a shocking purple hat. Eight portraits, the wizard said. Sir Rilbous had eight portraits from the dungeons to the west tower.

Ginny cursed under her breath. What amazing feat could Rilbous have accomplished to achieve _eight_ portraits across the school? But at least the wizard was eager to take Ginny to visit all of Rilbous's portraits, after she asked, explaining that there was nothing to do most days behind the frame. Anxiously, Ginny checked the time as the wizard led her to Rilbous' fifth portrait. It was almost two.

Two o'clock came and went as the wizard finished the tour, leaving Ginny high up in the west tower with a stitch in her side. Hurriedly, she raced to the other portraits that the wizard had showed her in search of Riddle, checking the portrait in the dungeons first before the others. It was a quarter until three when she finally found where the Slytherin was waiting with a book in his hand. He had evidently been expecting a long wait.

"Forty-five minutes late, Ginevra," Riddle remarked, snapping the book shut. "Tardiness is not becoming."

Glaring, the redhead smoothed out her robes and tried to regain her breath. "Neither is sadism," she retorted. "Eight bloody portraits, Riddle? From the dungeons to the west wing?"

He smirked before turning away. "This way."

Grudgingly, Ginny followed him down the corridor. Behind him, she touched her hand to her forehead, trying to balance out the dizzying headache that was threatening to surface. Thanks to the workout Riddle made her do, she was already tired before the afternoon had even begun.

"I have heard of your misfortune in Potions," Riddle said, and Ginny hastily pulled her hand away just as he turned to look at her.

She sniffed as she quickened her pace to catch up. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've been set up with the unlikeliest partner, or so it seems," Riddle said. His gaze was unwavering.

Shrugging, Ginny replied, "He seems pleasant enough." She stood helpless when Riddle killed her existing family members, and she would not now allow Riddle to deride her great uncle, with whom she was partnered, Ignatius Prewett.

Riddle tilted his head to the side. "First appearances are often deceiving."

Ginny's lips tilted upwards as she turned her eyes on him. "I've learned that already, thanks."

He ignored her jibe. "You wouldn't have been here long enough to learn what the Prewett name means."

Incensed, Ginny sent him a hardened look. "Only a week ago, you were arguing how a surname is only – and I quote – a _ruthless label_."

He quieted, and Ginny rejoiced that she had defeated Tom Riddle for the moment. "I stand by what I said then," he said, "but my warnings are not based on prejudice. It's based on actual evidence."

Her jaw clenched. "It's because he's a Gryffindor, isn't it?" Her voice was hard.

Riddle stared intently at Ginny for a moment before saying, "Simply reasoning that he's a Gryffindor would fall under prejudice, not evidence, wouldn't it?"

"I would say so," Ginny sniffed, "but I don't know how your twisted mind works."

He nodded slowly. "Twisted," he echoed, and Ginny found it difficult to decipher his tone of voice. "Interesting. I see you've started on the Council task of character observation nicely. Speaking of which," he said as he slowed to a stop, nodding at an unkempt empty classroom, "we're here."

Like a proper gentleman, Riddle held the door open for her. She hesitated, shaking her head and gestured toward the entrance. "After you," Ginny insisted. She would feel uneasy, knowing that Riddle was right behind her where she couldn't see him.

He cocked his head slightly. "Ladies first."

"I'm no lady."

"No?" Riddle fell silent, studying her with furrowed brows before deciding, "If you insist, then." He entered the classroom and Ginny followed, securing the door closed behind her. With several flicks of his wand, Riddle cast what Ginny supposed were protection charms before seating himself at the head of a long table.

The room was dimly lit. There was nothing spectacular about this room, nothing that marked it as the property of the Slytherin Council. Not customized, it looked like just an abandoned classroom. Ginny never would have guessed that this would be the scene where the Council's scheming occurred.

Quickly scanning the table, Ginny spotted Zabini and the empty seat beside him, quietly making her way over. The moment she was settled, Riddle cleared his throat.

"I begin this first Council meeting Saturday, September sixth," Riddle said. He made no apology for tardiness, nor did he offer any introductions. Rather, he leapt immediately into business. "Renaldi, the papers." The Slytherin seated beside Riddle removed a thick stack of parchment, and Ginny noticed a quill and a bottle of ink had already been laid for him. "Ayare, Aquila. Degree Two."

Beside her, Zabini flipped through the pages of a book he had brought. Wondering what sort of novel – or textbook – was interesting enough to distract him during a Council meeting. Ginny turned to look. It was the same book he had pulled out and studied during Transfiguration after their conversation died, and now Ginny saw that he had scrawled text in the margins of the pages. Squinting slightly, she caught a couple names strung together with several adjectives.

The Slytherin across from Ginny cleared his throat, and she noticed he had out an issue of the Daily Prophet before him, also marked up along the sides. Looking around, Ginny realized that everyone had in front of them some form of notes, and it made her feel unprepared and naked as she looked down at her empty desk space.

"We all know the tragedy that his family suffered through this summer," the Slytherin began. Ginny frowned. She didn't know what the tragedy was, but she figured pointing it out would be a little tactless. "It has modified his behavior slightly. He tries hard to be the same as he once was, but you can tell he's someone more… reserved."

"That's one way to put it," Zabini said. "Ayare has lost patience with everything he doesn't already know. He pretends, but he doesn't really listen." Ginny marveled at how transformed Zabini was. While nothing short of flippant in class, Zabini now somewhat reminded Ginny of McGonagall in taking authority. "This inability to progress is a flaw."

"But when taking into account the tragedy, we must admit that he's recovering admirably," another Slytherin inputted.

"But not enough."

"He'll recover in time," the Slytherin argued.

"Then his rank will recover then as well," Zabini said.

"A fall in rank may overwhelm him in his state of depression, making the climb even more difficult."

"A difficulty he must face and overcome." It was another Slytherin this time, and Ayare's defender hesitantly nodded and surrendered. There was evidently no sympathy among them, nothing like the supportive family Gryffindor provided.

Riddle lifted the quill and dashed it into the ink. "Ayare, Aquila, removed from Degree Two to Degree Three. He will continue to fall if he doesn't improve," he said, modifying a piece of parchment. "Beare, Ursula. Degree Five."

The topic of conversation immediately switched over from one unrecognized name to another unrecognized name, and Ginny felt useless. With her chin resting on her palm, Ginny watched the exchanges silently, through narrowed eyes. Even if she had no input, she found the Council meeting interesting. There were so many stories behind Slytherin students, so much history that the Council was able to perceive and comprehend. She had learned to read people in war, detecting emotions and tracing doubt, but _never_ had she been able to unwrap minds and outline character.

Everyone had a story. They ran through the list quickly, though the few hours spent in that room taught her more about the Slytherin house than the six years she spent as a Gryffindor. How she envisioned the Slytherin house then, was a mere outline of what it truly was. The Slytherins had so much more depth, so much more _color_, than what she had expected. She could see the electrifying ambition that coursed through their bodies like blood, as the Council discussed their plans – their _schemes – _and it left a bitter aftertaste.

Their focus, Ginny thought, was distorted. They were obsessed with the promises of power, and what especially haunted her were the faint murmurs in the back of her head, whispering Lord Voldemort's name. The Dark Lord – what was the difference between him and these other hungry characters? Ginny pursed her lips grimly. He was more powerful, she supposed. More creative, more intelligent. He was never sheltered.

He had nothing to lose.

The other Slytherins were miniatures of the Dark Lord, of blander flavor, but the ideology was the same, and that frightened her. She could smell their beliefs, and it was suffocating, pulling at the edges of her mind.

_This_ was why Slytherins and Gryffindors traditionally never got along. They were too different.

Suddenly, Ginny understood a conversation held with a Slytherin in her sixth year of Hogwarts as the war was climaxing. She had asked why he hated Gryffindors, and he in return asked why she hated Slytherins.

"I don't hate," she had said. "I don't want to hate."

He had barked a laugh. "That's why we hate you lot."

She had shaken her head. "I don't get it."

"You're a bunch of naïve fools clambering for the limelight," he had explained, shifting his bag on his shoulder. "Don't know what's good for you, and don't know reality when you see it."

It wasn't that she couldn't see reality, Ginny realized. It was that their realities were _different_, marked with different priorities.

"I conclude this Council meeting." Riddle's voice pulled Ginny from her reverie. "Dismissed."

Chairs scraped the floor as everyone stood and gathered their things. Zabini turned to her with a smile, his carefree personality returned. "You'll get used to it," he promised.

"I'll hold you to that," Ginny said.

It wasn't until after the Council had completely disbanded that she realized, that though they ran through the list that should have included all the names in Slytherin, Evalis Greyback was never brought up.

-x-

Idly playing with her fork, Ginny looked up from her empty dinner plate towards the staff table, where Dumbledore sat conversing with the charms professor. Her stomach clenched in anticipation as she imagined what would happen in less than an hour… what memories would be pushed to the forefront of her mind.

_It's better that Dumbledore finds these memories rather than Riddle_, Ginny told herself, and she redirected her focus to her plate again.

"Not hungry, I see," Zabini observed.

Ginny forced a grin before helping herself to some rice.

"Now you're just being contrary," Zabini said, grinning.

The redhead longed to ask him about Evalis, but she knew he wouldn't speak. Asking him again would only raise his suspicions. She'd have to ask someone else. Clearing her throat, Ginny tried another topic. "So, when are Quidditch tryouts?"

She was surprised by his outburst of laughter, and Ginny felt rather offended. "Our Quidditch team doesn't take too well to observers," he told her once his chortles died, though his eyes were still bright with amusement.

She shot him an irritated look. "And _I_ would ask because I have nothing better to do than to _observe_," she retorted.

Zabini grinned. "You wouldn't be the only girl."

Ginny snorted into her pumpkin juice.

They lapsed into a silence, disturbed only by the cutlery as they ate, before Zabini said with a frown, "You don't mean to try out."

An arched eyebrow daring him to continue, was the only answer he received.

Clearing his throat and setting down the silverware, Zabini explained, "There hasn't been a Slytherin girl who has tried out for the team for as long as anyone can remember."

Not that the tradition would really be jeopardized, as Ginny continued to adamantly label herself as a Gryffindor girl rather than a Slytherin. Though, she supposed, there had never been a Gryffindor girl to try out for the Slytherin team before, either.

"And," he continued, "you're a Council member."

"Thank you. I didn't know," Ginny said dryly.

He shot her a serious look. "Look, Quidditch is a dangerous sport, and there are plenty of people who would kill to have your position. And I'm not exaggerating, either." He gestured with his hands as he spoke. "Some bloke might send a Bludger your way during practice, or toss a Quaffle too hard at you, and that would count as besting you. Then your spot would be usurped."

She fell silent for a moment. "You're right. It sounds dangerous," Ginny acknowledged with a small nod before smiling slightly. "Makes it seem all the more fun."

"But completely unreasonable. Ludicrous, even," Zabini persisted, and Ginny was touched by his concern. Or, well, she thought it was concern. Maybe he was simply frustrated that he couldn't drill the Slytherin mindset into her. "You'd have to be crazy."

Ginny laughed, meeting him in the eye. "I already am."

"Unhealthily so, it seems," Zabini muttered before trying again. "Aren't you concerned for your Council position?"

_No_. She paused, looking for a better way to express her thoughts. "What use is power when it keeps you from enjoying life?"

It was fleeting, but Ginny caught the alarmed look on Zabini's face before he masked it with his easy smile. "You're something else, aren't you?"

Ginny smiled. "Something else is the best something to be."

He released a long sigh. "Well, if you insist. Quidditch tryouts are next week Saturday after breakfast. I'll take you there."

She didn't like the thought of being escorted around, as if she was defenseless. "It's at the pitch, right? I can make it there myself, thanks."

He flashed her a quick grin. "Of course. But," he continued, "you think I'd want to miss out on the opportunity to witness first-hand what's going to be the biggest piece of gossip for the next month?"

Ginny laughed, but she couldn't shake off the feeling that there was another reason he wanted to see her try out. _You think I'd want to miss out on the opportunity to witness first-hand… the biggest piece of gossip?_ She was reminded of the eyes that watched from the corners of the room during the Initiation.

_I'd wager you're hiding some traumatizing history, and that you're a good storyteller_. The analysis Zabini gave of her that first day in Transfiguration coursed through her mind. It was chilling to know that her character was going to be critiqued.

In a nest full of hungry eyes, Ginny wondered how much longer she could keep her secrets locked.

* * *

_Next: Glimpses into Ginny's past._

_Review, please? :D_


	7. Ch 6: Occlumency

Final Riddles

Beta'ed by Daughter of the Black. – she owns my socks.

A little shorter than normal, but maybe a little juicier too? Or not. At any rate, that's a lot faster of an update. I mean, an update within – a month? I meant to get this out a couple days ago, but school reared its hideous head. Hell yes, it's interim time.

Thanks for all the people who reviewed. I definitely didn't get to RR most people. Because I am a bum. I'm sorry. c_C; Let's try this again?

Hope you enjoy! And definitely let me know what you think, and if you think it's too slow-moving or moving too quickly.

* * *

_Your secrets my food_

_Your eyes my door_

_Your mind my home_

_My hunger your core_

* * *

**Chapter Six: Occlumency**

"_Legilimens_!"

.

_Shaking hands broke the seal of the envelope and removed an enclosed vial. A note accompanied it: _Miss Weasley, it has come to my attention that you are gravely ill and should return home._ Standing, she tossed both the envelope and the note into the fire and downed the potion before vanishing the vial. Not long after she stumbled into her bed, her lungs seized together and she began to cough violently…_

_._

_Somewhere glass shattered. She was pushed down below the table where she was sitting and screams erupted overhead. Crawling to peer through the gap between the floor and the edge of the tablecloth, she removed her wand and whispered hexes at the intruders until she felt a breeze and the point of a wand digging into her neck. "My, aren't we feisty?" Spinning around, she knocked the wand away and stupefied the man…_

_._

_By the light of wand she fingered the Gryffindor emblem on her Hogwarts robes before tossing the clothing aside and stringing her bag shut. The time for Hogwarts was over. She shouldered her sack and into her hands a tin jar, which soon activated and pulled her out of the room…_

_._

_Her heart was still. Her footing had slipped and the Death Eaters had heard her. And she couldn't fathom how she had made such a stupid, careless, mistake in a time like this. They were advancing on her hiding place, she knew they were. She could feel their footsteps approaching, each thud heavier than the one before. But then she heard a familiar voice – her mum – scream out hexes, distracting them – letting her escape – and then there was one "Avada Kedavra" and the fighting fell silent –_

.

"NO!" Ginny thrashed and snapped her eyes open, finding herself on the floor panting. Her eyes melding shut with hot tears, Ginny lay motionless. "No, no, no…" It was so vivid, more so than her recurring nightmares…

Dumbledore stood somber faced before quietly making his way to his desk and pulling out a bar of chocolate. "Eat," he said, holding out the sweet.

Trembling, Ginny accepted the chocolate, though it helped only a little. She could still see it all – the day the Order decided to pull her out of Hogwarts to home-school and prepare her for battle – the days they spent scouting and scavenging – the days they were caught – the days they lost lives…

"Clear your mind," Dumbledore said soothingly. "Concentrate on something calming. Relax."

Ginny nodded numbly and tried to focus. She had faced dementors before, and the idea here was much the same. She could do it. "Let me try again."

Dumbledore, however, was uncertain. "You need more time to recover."

"No." Ginny shook her head, fighting to keep her breath even to appear readier than she really was. "Once more," she pleaded.

He nodded, though the corners of his lips were still slightly tugged downward as he raised his wand. "_Legilimens_!"

_._

_Moody held her foot, rolling it from the ball down, then guided her across the room. She had just been taken out of Hogwarts and was now receiving intensive Auror training alongside the younger of her brothers, learning how to steal across the room when avoiding magic use. "No," barked Moody as she attempted to imitate the scurry he had demonstrated. "Lower your center of balance and don't lean so damn forward – "_

_._

_The room was brightly illuminated, a map spread before her on the table as Bill moved clay figures around with his wand, plotting the next desperate plan of attack. Suddenly, the door burst open, and George came in eyes wide and lined with dark shadows. His face was whiter than anything Ginny had ever seen. Limply, his hand dropped to his side, before he collapsed to the floor. As she hurried, with the rest of her family, to kneel beside her brother, her mum ran past and peered outside into the hallway. "George, where's Fred? George – "_

_._

_The bright lights were gone and the air was damp and moldering. Her hair was heavy with grime, but she couldn't feel it. In fact, she couldn't feel much of anything, and she _hated_ that. And she _hated_ how the only emotion she could feel was hatred toward her own apathy, because hate was such a poisonous power to have. Not even the sound of approaching footsteps could distract her from herself, nor the sounds of hands hidden in darkness rattling the door to her cage. Only when a pale face loomed over her did Ginny suddenly sit up, desperate to turn this maddening hatred onto someone else. Staring spitefully into her face, Ginny wished the woman dead, and in a burst of uncontrolled magic the woman crumpled, lifeless…_

_._

Tears sparked in Ginny's eyes as she gasped for breath, throwing off Dumbledore's legilimency. As she opened her eyes, she found she was no longer standing, but was facing the floor. Numbly, she rolled over, squeezing her eyes shut again.

That last memory – she hadn't meant to kill Daphne Greengrass. She remembered the witch from Hogwarts, to be a year ahead of her, and she was no spectacular evil – except that she was the messenger that brought Ginny _to_ evil.

They would Crucio her first, she remembered, to weaken her mind and break her defiance. And, without lifting the spell, they'd Imperio her, so that when she was nearly unconscious with pain, they would have her murder someone she once knew, someone they no longer had use for.

She learned then that she wasn't as strong as she wished she was.

If anything, the murder she committed on her own – taking Greengrass's life – was the catalyst that slowly returned emotion to Ginny. She was reminded of horror and regret and determination – that she should never again hate so strongly as to lose control. That she should never again hate at all.

That didn't mean that guilt didn't gnaw at the fringes of her conscious. For weeks she could hear only Greengrass's voice when she awoke; she could see only Greengrass's face as she slept. During those endless days, it had been difficult not to hate herself.

Gradually Ginny's breathing evened, and she managed to push herself off the floor, squaring her shoulders.

"I think that's enough for today. You did well, this being your first time."

Opening her eyes, Ginny found that Dumbledore was watching her so strangely that she hesitated. All that she had seen, she knew he had as well – and he was, no doubt, curious as to what it all was. Steeling herself to allow his curiosity some satiation, Ginny recited his words back to him with a small smile. "Is there anything you'd like to ask me, Professor? Anything at all?"

Dumbledore's head tilted imperceptibly to the side, silent for a long moment. "How do you smile?"

There was a pause as the question lingered in the air. Slowly, Ginny looked up at the wizard, closing her eyes to recall the words he would tell her fifty years from now. "Someone once told me that the moment the opposition breaks who I am, is the moment I let them win." She exhaled, opening her eyes. "They think they've won. But they haven't, not yet." She had remembered those words that first night as an escapee, having run away after Daphne's death.

"You are a remarkable young woman," Dumbledore said.

"No, I'm not remarkable at all. I've been touched." She shook her head, rubbing her left forearm.

"We all are," Dumbledore acknowledged, "but it takes a true Gryffindor to keep trying, Miss Weasley, and a truer one to sort herself into Slytherin."

She looked up sharply, tears forming in her eyes. She hadn't been called Weasley in so long, and she missed it. "Sir?"

"I shall research a way to return you to your time when you are ready. Good evening, Miss Ginevra, and practice clearing your mind before you sleep tonight." His voice was gentle. "We will meet again next week."

Ginny smiled. "Thank you, Sir."

* * *

She was only halfway back to the Slytherin common room when her head started pounding, each thud reverberating. It had been a strenuous day, and she was exhausted, physically and mentally…

Pressing her hand to her forehead, Ginny staggered onwards. One step, then another. Dragging her feet along, she remembered that she'd forgotten to take her potions after dinner.

Ginny hadn't even finished walking down the corridor when her legs gave way beneath her and she slumped against the wall, her mind blank.

* * *

He stood, disguised by a Disillusionment Charm, outside the doors of the Hospital Wing. It was last night during his rounds when Tom Riddle happened upon an unconscious body, and this morning when he made it a point to awaken early and navigate his way to the Hospital Wing where he had dropped Ginevra off the night before.

He had blanched when he discovered the body to be the redheaded witch. She was powerful, he knew – the accounts of her Bat Bogey Hex, he had garnered from her classmates, held an awed undertone. He had witnessed, for himself, the force she exerted behind her curses and jinxes, thrown – almost carelessly – at those who disturbed her solitude. She spent the majority of her time alone, he noticed, lost in a world he thirsted to know.

That she had left herself so vulnerable, so open to attack last night left him slightly disgusted. It was a disgrace to have a Slytherin, let alone a Council member, unconscious in the middle of the corridor. And this was not the first time she had shown that she was physically weak. He had seen in the reflection of a window, as his back was turned to her, how she would sometimes touch her hand to her head or press her palm to her side as a grimace flickered over her face. Had it been anyone else, he would have exploited this Achilles' heel.

But Ginevra was different. She wouldn't respond well to his usual tactics, and he wanted more from her than he did the others.

Besides her potential, there were things Ginevra seemed to know about him and he couldn't fathom how she did. She could read him better than all the Council members combined could, and it alarmed him. What was worse was that he didn't even know exactly what Ginevra knew about him.

It was not so much in what she said, but rather her actions – the way her eyes would pierce him before pulling away just as he would being using legilimency to toy with the edges of her mind, the frown that would twitch at her lips as he tried to recover information from her, the way her brows would knit together ever so slightly as he let slip personal statements that no one _should've_ been able to decipher. She seemed able to pull apart his honeyed lies and his secret truths.

In a way, Tom saw a bit of himself in her. Orphaned, powerful – and feeling always out of place. Then there was the way she would pull out her wand, a way he recognized distinctly as his own habit…

Instead of destroying her, Tom brought her to the Hospital Wing to be fixed.

The voices inside drifted over to him.

"How are you feeling?" He recognized the speaker to be Madame Frost.

"Mm… fine."

"Excellent. Now, Miss Ginevra, answer me honestly. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Ginevra insisted, somewhat indignantly. "Just – just a bit groggy is all."

"I need to know _exactly_ how you feel in order to prescribe you potions if your current ones aren't working well."

"They're working fine, Madame Frost. I just forgot to take them last night after dinner."

"Forgot to take them? _Forgot_ to take them? How could you forget? This is a serious matter, young lady. If –"

"I know, Madame Frost, I'm sorry. I just had a lot on my mind yesterday."

"_A lot on your mind_ is no excuse! We are talking about your health. Potentially the difference between you living and you dying! You are in no condition to _forget_ to take your potions!"

"I know, and I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"You're right, it won't happen again, it better not. You're lucky that Mr. Riddle found you last night and brought you to me so I could fix you up before anything truly bad happened."

There was a long stretch of silence, and Tom tensed in anticipation. "Riddle?" Ginevra echoed weakly. "_He_ brought me here?"

"Yes, and you should thank him if you see him. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn't been found until this morning? Forgot your potions, indeed." Madame Frost huffed. "And you know, on a different note, I've had several students in here sporting ills they claim you cast upon them, unprovoked."

There was a short, embarrassed silence, and she spoke so quietly afterwards that Tom had to strain his ears to catch what she said. "Err – yes, I did apologize to them. It was – was a reaction, really. They sort of… surprised me."

"Your instant reaction to surprise is hexing?" Madame Frost was incredulous. "Now, given your circumstances, Professor Dippet has allowed things to slide thus far, but you must make an effort to control your… _reactions_, or you will be punished for your infractions – possibly even removed from school."

"Of course," Ginevra paused before continuing somewhat more brightly, "I have been getting better at controlling them."

"See to it that you are."

The conversation inside the Hospital Wing died and Tom leaned back against the wall, not noticing the cold of the stone piercing through his robes and prickle at his skin as his eyes closed.

…_Potentially the difference between you living and you dying…_

…_In no condition to forget to take your potions…_

…_Your instant reaction to surprise is hexing…_

…_Given your circumstances…_

Then there was the way Ginevra had said his name. "Riddle," she had said. "Riddle," she had said, as if she were horrified. "Riddle," she had said, almost as if she were afraid.

It was dangerous, he knew, to keep Ginevra close. Common sense dictated that he should have her removed as far away from him as possible – away from his world, away from Hogwarts. But he was too curious to let her go, and he would rope her in closer yet.

One day, he would find out all of her secrets and devour them – and her.


	8. Ch 7: Quidditch

Final Riddles

I was going through some Tom Riddle fics while not working on this story. What I'm now trying to figure out is why Hermione/Tom is seemingly so much more popular than Ginny/Tom?

Huh. Strange world.

Onwards to the chapter. I don't like it at all – probably because I've read it so many times since I kept getting stuck, trying to figure out what to do with the crappy writing. Oh well. It's out (and about 1k words longer than usual, so appreciate that!), so now we can get a move on.

* * *

_Two parts blackened injury,_

_One part reddened dignity,_

_The last part golden brings glory –_

_What am I? Now please tell me._

**Chapter Seven: Quidditch**

It took her a while to find this place, this corner of the library. It was down a dusty aisle she had never walked before with tables inconveniently far from useful texts, surrounded instead by outdated tomes on animal anatomy. But it was quiet, isolated, and new – not like the Room of Requirement, where memories would flood out sound and sight. And if she lost herself in thought here, as she tended to do, she could pretend that her tears were triggered by the dust instead.

This was the sanctuary to which she retreated every day after class. Alone, private, where she could stop struggling, stop fighting to force her former personality out. Where she didn't have to look up to find the disappointment etched in professor's faces, disdain in Slytherins', distrust in those of other Houses. Here she was Ginny Weasley, war victim, finally alone.

It was so easy to be alone, so blissful. But at the same time… the silence wouldn't distract her from seeing Fleur strangled by her own hair, from feeling beneath her fingers, the brains of a brother that had been somehow sent to her, from…

Shifting the texts out of her arms and onto the table, Ginny sighed. Isolation wasn't healthy, she knew, but there was no one she was truly at ease with in Hogwarts.

Then again, would there ever be anyone she would truly be at ease with? There would always be that veil dividing her from the world: _I have danced with death; you are not yet haunted._

At any rate, there was more than enough schoolwork to keep her preoccupied.

The bell rang.

"Merlin."

Ginny muttered incoherent words under her breath as she scooped the texts back into her arms and strode out of her sanctuary. She was almost late.

Quickening her pace as she navigated the labyrinth of bookshelves, Ginny juggled the books into one arm as she grasped for a note in her bag with the other. At last her fingers clasped around a folded note of the right size, and she withdrew it to read the impeccable cursive – _Dear Ginevra…_

By the time she was done skimming the note, Ginnny had successfully exited the twisting maze. And there _she_ was, seated at the window seat in the far corner as the note had promised – a witch, with large eyes and black hair tied back into a tight ponytail, sitting with straight-backed posture. Ginny hesitated. _She's not Professor McGonagall yet. She's not dead yet, she has not been betrayed yet, she has not been tortured yet with burns running down her body spelling stories…_

Ginny shuffled into the seat across from the raven-haired witched, sliding the books from her arms and onto the table. "Hi," she offered, struggling to smile against the ongoing mantra in her head. "I'm Ginny."

She was surprised when McGonagall smiled in return. In fact, up close, Ginny found that the stern features that would line her face in fifty years were not yet present. "Minerva."

"Minerva," Ginny repeated. She felt so unbelievably uncomfortable using McGonagall's given name. "Thanks for coming here. For – for helping me."

McGonagall – or _Minerva_ – only broadened her smile. "It's a pleasure," she said sincerely. "Thank you for giving me an excuse to visit the castle."

The redhead only nodded. Once upon a time, she could've sympathized with such a desire, but not now – not when she could see the ghosts of her old friends and classmates in the corridors. Not when she _was_ seeing the younger version of an esteemed professor sitting before her, unaware of her fate at death…

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, err – ," Ginny quickly wiped at the tears that were forming in her eyes. "I just came from my usual study spot. It's nicely isolated, which is why I like it, but that makes it unusually dusty. I must've – must've just gotten some in my eye, I guess."

The other witch looked uncertain, tilting her head forward with a small frown. "Are you sure? You look – "

"It's fine, this isn't the first time," Ginny said quickly, shaking her head. "I just hope I'm not developing an allergic reaction to dust."

McGonagall hesitated at first but then slowly nodded, allowing the matter to rest. "All right then…" She trailed off before smiling weakly and, after fiddling with her hands for a brief moment in awkward confusion – another difference, Ginny tallied, to the McGonagall she knew – brought forward several sheets of parchment. "So – so I've already drawn up an outline of basic Transfiguration concepts we could go over, but first, is there anything in particular you're having difficulties with?"

Their tutoring session began.

...

"La!" Feeling someone slumping into the seat beside her, Ginny turned to see her roommate – _what_ was her name? – heave an aggravated sigh. She had to hold back an aggravated sigh of her own. Ginny had been hoping for a quiet morning before descending to the pitch for Quidditch tryouts. "Merlin, Ginevra," her roommate said, "you _will not_ believe what I just heard."

Skeptically, Ginny arched an eyebrow. "What won't I believe?"

Her roommate's eyes darted to the side ever so quickly before leaning forward, whispering in an undertone, "You wouldn't know her – or at least, I'll assume you don't know her – but _apparently_ McGonagall's been spotted returning to Hogwarts." She paused, contemplating how to continue. "She graduated a couple years ago." There was another pause before she said disdainfully, "She's a _Gryffindor_."

Ginny returned to her breakfast with pointed indifference. "I fail to see why I wouldn't believe that an alumnus has returned for a visit."

"There are rumors," the blonde persisted, her eyes comically wide, "that you were seen with her in the library."

Though Ginny's fork faltered in disbelief – was that it? An anticlimactic scandal? – the blonde took it to mean that the redheaded witch was appalled by the accusation.

"Isn't it terrible?" The blonde shook her head sympathetically. "I've told off the sorry bloke who was spreading such lies, but you know how rumors go."

Still left speechless – that something as inane as being seen at the same table as an evidently much-despised Gryffindor could pass as gossip – Ginny set down her silverware and stared at the blonde.

"I just thought you should know," the blonde said, suddenly straightening her back and standing. "I'll make sure the ridiculous rumor won't be spread any further."

When her newly vacated seat was promptly taken by Riddle, Ginny understood the reason for the girl's abrupt departure. "I see you've been informed about the rumor," Riddle commented nonchalantly.

The corners of Ginny's lips curled. "Rumor? No. I was just informed about an idiotic observation," Ginny replied. "Where I come from, rumors are at least vaguely interesting."

"So it's true, then?" Riddle reached for a bread roll. He ignored the dirty look she shot at him for actually caring about the subject and continued, "I suppose you didn't know who she was at the time."

Ginny sniffed while shuffling rolls of parchment in order, finding it disconcerting that even Riddle was caught up in something so pointless. There were far more serious things in the world to be concerned about – death, poverty, hate… And here, so much energy was simply spent on debating trivial occurrences. "I still fail to see the significance of this rumor." Thinking of the school's frivolous nature left a jarring taste on her tongue.

But maybe it was always like this. Maybe it was just she who was too caught up in war to slip back into the happily inane mindset that maybe, maybe she once had as well.

With an easy shrug, Riddle responded, "What's the reason for any rumor, simple curiosity. People are bound to wonder what an alumnus is doing revisiting the school, and you were said to be seen with her."

That … actually, almost made sense. But still… "Since the duration of her stay was in the library, I would assume she returned to use the library," Ginny answered. While not exactly an everyday occurrence, it wasn't unusual to find someone from outside the school in the Hogwarts library, taking advantage of tomes rarely found elsewhere.

"You, Dear Ginevra, are keeping a secret," Riddle decided.

Ginny narrowed her eyes. "You, _Sweet_ Tom, are reading too much into things."

Though brief, Ginny caught the flicker of his eyes as she uttered the mock pet name. Riddle nodded while exhaling slowly before saying, "I trust you're feeling better now."

Surprised at the change of topic, Ginny answered with uncertainty, "Yes." She swallowed the word "why" down, knowing Riddle was more likely to explain if she didn't prompt him with a question.

"Good." Riddle nodded sharply and spoke in a lower tone, "You seemed unwell the other day."

Ginny blushed, having already forgotten about that whole fainting-in-the-corridor affair. "Ah – yes – Madame Frost told me about…" She trailed off and the flush intensified as she tried to speak. Thanking the Dark Lord was a difficult task, which was why she had been avoiding him all week. "I guess – thank you. For, er, bringing me in."

"It won't happen again?"

"No," Ginny said quickly. If anything, the mortification of possibly being brought into the Hospital Wing by Riddle a second time was more than enough motivation to keep up with her medication.

"That's a good thing to hear," Riddle said. "And you're sure McGonagall wasn't bothering you? Health is a very precarious thing, after all, and easily aggravated. I would hate to hear that the association should irritate you."

Ginny opened her mouth to respond before closing it, casting Riddle a sharp look instead. Inside, however, she felt deliciously giddy – that she held information, which Riddle was attempting to weasel out of her using different tactics, even if the information itself was somewhat trivial.

"No," Ginny said. "She was not bothering me."

Riddle wasn't ready to let go yet. "I'm wary of her, of why she's here."

"Don't be," Ginny assured.

He cast a sidelong glance at her, one eyebrow arched. "You know better, then?"

"Yes." She fought to restrain a smile as a shadow of frustration flickered over Riddle's face. Inwardly, she wondered why no one realized that the meeting with McGonagall was just a tutoring session. Granted, their session today was largely theory without much wand-waving, so it might've been difficult to discern from afar – but if anyone were to overhear their conversation, no doubt they would've realized that McGonagall was simply teaching Ginny Transfiguration.

She didn't know that because of her leftover-war-tendency to hex anyone who startled her, people had taken to giving Ginny a wide berth, or they would make their presence obvious. It meant no sneaking around the redhead, but it also meant self-preservation – which overruled all else in the Slytherin mindset.

Riddle opened his mouth again, but Ginny cut him off, speaking in a lower tone so as to avoid drawing attention. "Stop trying to wheedle information out of me, Riddle. I know what you're doing, and it's not working. If you really wanted to know – well, have you tried just asking me?"

He was horrified, she knew, though he didn't show it beyond arched eyebrows. She was demanding he do what he had earlier in the school year demanded she _not_ do – ask questions. In short, she was setting herself up for trouble, but she needed Riddle to drop his guarded Slytherin behavior around her if she wanted to be able to change him. To stop him from becoming Lord Voldemort.

When Riddle didn't respond, Ginny continued, "Because honestly, the way you're going about it now just makes me suspicious."

There was a long stretch of silence, during which Ginny _knew_ he was judging her. At long last, he complied. "Why was McGonagall here?"

"I'm failing all my classes. She's here to save my Transfiguration grade from being a T." She shrugged to show indifference and stood to leave.

"T?" Riddle echoed.

"Troll," Ginny supplied, smiling softly at the memory of her now deceased twin brothers, who had informed her of the grade – or, more likely, invented it.

Swinging her bag over her shoulder, Ginny nodded to Riddle once and left. She wasn't expecting Riddle to follow suit and fall into stride beside her.

He sent a charming smile her way. "I doubt you're failing all your classes."

Raising her eyebrows, Ginny said, "Want to bet?" Over the last two weeks of school, all her professors had pulled her back after class and suggested that she either drop the class or find a tutor – save her Defense class, where the professor merely suggested that she find a therapist. But there weren't many people she could ask to tutor her. Students of other houses took one look at the green and silver badge before turning away, and students of her own house, she knew, regarded her as a freak.

She knew they spread rumors about her. She had caught drifting whispers of how she thrashes in her bed at night, of her hexing tendency, of how she's simply _different_ – how she exudes this persona of a flavor distinctly non-Slytherin. The only ones that made an effort to communicate with her were really only those who hoped to gain political favor, and she made no effort to communicate with others. She couldn't. She didn't have the energy left for that.

"You're a powerful witch," Riddle said, pulling Ginny out of her thoughts. "I find it difficult to imagine that you're having trouble in your classes."

Ginny smiled, somewhat condescendingly. "Lesson – potential skill is not the same as current level of skill."

Silence settled as he thought over her words. "I assume –," Riddle paused before rearranging his words into a question. "Have you found tutors for your other subjects yet then?"

Casting him a questioning glance, Ginny responded slowly, "Not quite."

"If you need help, I'm more than proficient in the classes you're taking."

She almost stumbled in her step. "Are you – are you _offering_?"

Riddle cast her a sharp glance, letting her know exactly what he thought about that question. And now that she thought it over, it shouldn't have been surprising. The diary Tom had helped her with her schoolwork in her first year.

"Well, er –," Arriving at the Hogwarts entrance, Ginny pushed open the front doors, searching for words. There wasn't a chance in hell that she would be accepting Riddle's offer. Knowing him, he was probably only trying to gauge her magical ability and then influence her understanding of magic. She'd rather fail than let herself be molded by him. Again. "Thank you for the offer, but I think I'll manage."

She thought she caught an offended look in his eyes. "Are you certain?"

"Yes," she said firmly, making her way over to the shed where the school brooms were kept. Shuffling through the stacks of battered brooms and comparing their handles and tails, she finally selected one, running a hand over the wood.

"If you want to fly, now's not the time. Slytherin Quidditch tryouts are being held," Riddle informed her.

Ginny shot him that same sharp glance he gave her earlier before returning to her broom. Pulling out her wand, she whispered a few words – but rather than groom the tail of the broom as she intended, the grass in front of her burst into flames. "Damn it. _Aguamenti!_"

As he watched her hose the grass down, Riddle nodded, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. "I see what you meant about skill level."

"Shut up," Ginny grumbled, looking uncomfortably at her wand. The broom in her hand was in devastatingly poor condition, and a few clippings and trimmings in certain areas would improve its speed – and she needed any sort of help she could get for the Quidditch tryouts. But evidently she couldn't recall the right incantations, and it was so damn frustrating to finally have magic again but to be unable to make full use of it as she once had, simply because she had _forgotten…_

She glanced up at Riddle for a moment before resolutely looking away. _No. There's no way I'm asking Riddle for help. No, no, no –_

In a moment of weakness, Ginny stuffed her pride aside and tentatively held up the broom toward Riddle. "Err… do you think you could, err, trim this for me?"

The look in his eyes was definitely amusement as he accepted the broom. Her pride still stinging, Ginny focused entirely on the broom, refusing to meet his eyes as she felt her face heat up. "Err, right here, along this edge… and, err, here, just a little – and then the tail…"

Soundlessly, Riddle shaved the wood as Ginny directed. "Yeah, that's good, thanks," she muttered, taking the broom back and testing her grip on it, holding the broom out in front of her. It felt foreign.

"So you really do mean to try out," Riddle mused. "Good luck."

Ginny looked up, surprised. He didn't try to convince her otherwise as Zabini had. "Er, thanks," she said uncertainly.

As they neared the Quidditch pitch, Ginny found a surprisingly small crowd scattered – perhaps numbering less than a quarter of what would've been at a Gryffindor tryout, even before Harry was captain. Was Quidditch not as important to Slytherins in this time period?

"Quidditch doesn't seem to be a very popular sport, does it," Ginny mused.

Riddle arched an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

Ginny barely had the chance to gesture to the grounds before a new voice cut in, "The lack of hopefuls, maybe?" Ginny turned around to find Zabini joining them, falling into step beside her. "Riddle," he said in recognition, nodding his head. Riddle tilted his own imperceptibly to the side in response.

"Yes, that," Ginny agreed.

Zabini splayed his hand out facing the sky, allowing Riddle to take dominance over the answer – but when Riddle remained silent and instead focused his piercing gaze upon the Italian, Zabini explained, "Quidditch is popular – but not many people are willing to partake in it. Council members generally don't try out – like I told you a week ago. And anyone below Degree Five isn't allowed the… _honor_ of trying out. And women aren't " – here he paused to rephrase – " aren't _traditionally_ known to try out, either."

"So that cuts the number of hopefuls down significantly," Ginny concluded, shaking her head. "That also cuts off some potential talent."

Zabini shrugged. "It also cuts down the number of incompetent fools. Because tryouts is made to be such a big deal – well, no one wants to humiliate themselves, so only those who actually have a shot at it really come."

Before Ginny had a chance to respond, Riddle gestured to a group slightly larger than the others. "That will be where the Chasers are gathered," he said, a note of dismissal in his tone. He refused eye contact when she looked up at him, and so she simply nodded before heading toward the pitch without them, gripping her broom tighter. She had a feeling that he knew what she was going to say and sent her away before she could let Zabini hear it.

When she joined the others trying out for Chaser, Ginny chanced a look back at the two Slytherins she had left. Zabini was studying Riddle, who was ignoring the other's open stare, determinedly focused on something else down at the pitch.

"You!" a voice suddenly barked, pulling Ginny's attention away toward a large, hulking figure – presumably the Quidditch captain. "This area is only for those trying out. Relocate yourself elsewhere."

Wordlessly, Ginny shifted the broom from its position on one shoulder to rest on the other, studying the captain with raised eyebrows. His gaze caught onto the broom's movement, eyes widening for a moment in realization before narrowing, the corner of his lips curling into a sneer. "As I said," he reiterated, "this area is only for those _trying out_ – of those _allowed_ to try out. Relocate yourself elsewhere."

Her lips parted in disbelief, anger accumulating in the cavity of her chest, "What - ?"

He cut her off. "You think you're exceptional, don't you? Worthy of attention, claiming a Council spot as a Newcomer." He let out a bark of laughter before spitting on the ground. "Check your ego, girly. You don't know our ways. You won't last long." His eyes traveled to the school broom in Ginny's hand, the corners of his lips tugging into a smirk. "You haven't even got a proper broom. We could fly in circles around you."

Ginny pursed her lips, forcing a calm façade over the fury that begged to burst. "You're right. I'm utterly incompetent." Her voice shook slightly, and she tilted her head slightly to the side, "So you should have nothing to lose."

"I don't like wasting my time," he sneered.

"You're doing an awfully good job of wasting time now," she said coldly.

A moment of silence fell as he traced his eyes over Ginny's small frame, leaving her feeling exposed. Finally, with the corners of his lips tight, he said, "Fine. Do your best. Crates!" From among the masses, another large Slytherin emerged. Nodding to him, the captain said, "Why don't you teach Miss Ginevra a lesson?"

Wordlessly the Slytherin mounted his broom and kicked off, taking his position before the goal posts. The captain returned to look at Ginny with narrowed eyes. "Five shots, and make them quick."

She flashed a false smile his way. "Thank you for your generosity." Flicking her hair over her shoulder, she straddled the broom and shot through the air –

This was it.

This was the reason she came to the pitch today. Briefly, she allowed her eyes to flicker closed, enjoying only the tickling breeze as it cooled her anger. There was never a moment that she felt more alive than in the air.

An unexpected whirr of wind caught her attention as she spun around – a Quaffle, shot her way, and she caught it just barely by the tips of her fingers. Ignoring the calls below, she studied the overconfident Keeper before her. If…

In a streak of color, Ginny feinted left before tossing the Quaffle into the air and hitting it with the end of the broom as she scored a goal through the rightmost goalpost. With a toss perhaps harder than necessary, the disgruntled Keeper returned the ball to her. "A free gift," he spat. "I won't go easy on you for the next one."

Four out of five was the final result. It was, by her standards, pathetic. She _felt_ weaker, incompetent, ineffective, and with a twist in her chest she realized that she couldn't even remember how long it had been since she last rode a broom. Years, likely. Roughly the same amount of time as to when she last held her original wand, when she still had her family, when the Burrow still stood proudly crooked…

Sometime between the November of her sixth year when she was pulled out of Hogwarts to learn tactics from Moody and the penultimate battle that stole the lives of Ron and Fred.

Reluctantly, Ginny turned the broom handle and touched ground, tossing the Quaffle to the Quidditch captain with a curt nod. But no sooner had she done this did a stout woman come barreling down the slope toward the Quidditch field -

"MISS GINEVRA?"

"Oh, Merlin," Ginny muttered, eyes wide with alarm. Hastily, she looked around to see if there was a place to disappear – but it was too late, she was caught. "Madame Frost – "

"Was that _you_ I saw tossing around a Quaffle in the air?" The matron's voice was too loud against the silence that consumed the group. "

"Madame Frost – " Ginny tried again.

"Are you – Oh, for Christ's sake, you can't be trying out, are you? You _know_ you're not fully – "

She was desperate, "Madame Frost!"

"Might I remind you, when you first showed up here you were as good as _dead_ – "

"Madame Frost, if I may," a new voice cut in, breaking the matron's tirade with its commanding tone. Ginny's eyes closed. She knew that voice. "This is neither the time nor place for discussion. The Slytherin tryouts are on a very tight schedule, without room for distraction or interruption."

Madame Frost fell silent, eyes flickering over the small crowd amassed. "Oh, of course, Mr. Riddle," she said, her face dusting pale as she collected herself. "Excuse me."

It was Riddle. Riddle had to be her savior again. There was some sort of irony in that, she knew, but she was too weary to think about it as she let the matron direct her away from the pitch, back towards the castle.

…

"What were you thinking?" Madame Frost asked later, when she had settled Ginny down in a Hospital Wing bed. "You _know_ you're in no condition to play Quidditch."

She did know this. Honestly. But…

When she was little and her brothers forbid her from playing Quidditch with them, flying was that exhilarating adrenaline rush she fell in love with. It had given her this giddiness in knowing that she was in control, and her brothers couldn't stop it – and the fact that they made an effort to stop her from flying simply made flying that much more exciting.

Keeping her eyes closed, Ginny answered quietly, "When I fly – it's like nothing in the world can touch me."

Madame Frost sighed, and her gaze softened a little before she hesitantly began, "You can fly a little, but Quidditch?" The mediwitch grimaced. "It's such a rough sport."

She didn't answer as the Sleeping Draught she was prescribed took into effect.

_I'm dying here. I'm haunted with the weight of soul-searing memories, memories constantly cycloning through my mind as I carry on mundane everyday tasks. It's so quiet, so still, and it _shouldn't_ be – I'm in the middle of a damn war. It's wrong. I'm going crazy. It's the calm before the storm, and I need to release the tension. Slytherin politics aren't helping. My mind's corrupted enough as it is. I need something that I know. Something physically exerting, because I'm sick of being weak. Something that can make me forget that I'm…_

But then again, after what she saw today –

Maybe Madame Frost was right. Maybe they were _all_ right, that she shouldn't have bothered trying out in the first place.

This Quidditch wasn't anything like she remembered. She didn't feel free, spirited, energized.

All she felt was agony.

* * *

First time this story broke 8 chapters. Woooo! Celebration~

Also, really. Why on earth is Tom/Hermione more popular than Tom/Ginny?

Review :3


	9. Ch 8: Fall

Final Riddles

In response to why Tom/Hermione seems to be more popular, I'd like to give a shout-out to Ra'iira the Fiend who came up with the best answer: _Tom/Hermione is more popular because people have the biggest boner for crack pairings._

Good answer.

Even if, I guess, Tom/Ginny isn't quite the conventional pairing, either.

Thanks for all your reviews, and sorry this came out so late. [I meant for it to come out… a month ago? Heh.] Life got busy [woooh college!] and I didn't end up editing it like I planned…. ANYWAYS ENJOY!

* * *

A season away from springing

I come before the crash

And after the summer

I make my windy blast.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Fall**

"This private meeting has been called in order to discuss the rank of Ginevra." Tom nodded to the Council at large behind folded hands with elbows propped upon the table. "As requested."

Along the table only one seat was empty. _She_ was still in the hospital wing, unaware.

Elfin, Rank Two, was the first to speak. "To say the least, her character is… different." He paused, searching for tactful wording. "Had I not seen the badge pinned to her chest, I wouldn't have pegged her to as a Slytherin."

"To be fair," inputted Zabini, Rank Five, "I wouldn't have pegged her for any of the four Houses. There's something otherworldly, almost, about her that just can't be classified."

This last statement Riddle could understand, though he gave no indication of it. For a while now, he had fancied Ginevra to be a strange combination of Gryffindor and Slytherin – a Gryffindor heart with a Slytherin awareness.

"Which brings to mind her Sorting," Riddle interrupted. "Away with generalities, we are here to discuss specifics."

Silence reigned for a moment before parchment was shuffled and throats were cleared. Again it was Elfin, Rank Two, who was the first to speak. "There are the rumors… So many I wouldn't know where to begin."

"My favorite one suggests she's a half-breed. Part vampire," Zabini said, and a couple tight grins flitted across faces, "no doubt conjured by a Hufflepuff. The most interesting, however, are the ones told by her dorm mates."

"Malfoy claimed that Ginevra had a stash of potions," Renaldi, Rank Three, said. "I figured that she was an addict – but after the Quidditch spectacle yesterday, the potions _could _be medicinal."

That sparked an argument as a series of Council members voiced their opinions, and Riddle leaned back in his seat, ready to enjoy the exchange.

"Medicinal potions can become drugs, if you get too dependent," Vaque, Rank Four, said. "I haven't ruled out Ginevra being an addict yet."

"What about everything else Malfoy said? Like how Ginevra's violent even in her sleep." Lestrange, Rank Four. "Apparently she used to sleeptalk, sometimes cry out, until she placed a Silencing charm on the drapes."

"Potion-induced hallucinations. That's why she screams out at night, I bet. I think she's an addict," Vaque affirmed.

Razzaire, Rank Two, finally spoke. "Either that, or maybe she just has nightmares."

"What kind of nightmares would make you scream at night, consistently?"

"Think about it – we don't know much about Ginevra. She doesn't even have a surname. All we know is that she's bloody good with hexes, has some health issues, and the like," Razzaire reasoned. "I'd wager she's being protected by the school from some affair with Grindelwald and had some nasty experience that needs to be remedied through potions."

"I'm partial to the addict theory. Her abysmal performance in schoolwork, her violent behavior, her withdrawn attitude – these are all symptoms of a typical addict."

Passively, Tom listened to the exchange, eyes darting across the room to follow the speaker. He personally found no reason for Ginevra to drop in rank, which was the ultimate point of discussion. But if it was decided that she be removed from the Council, so be it – perhaps, in her desperation to regain power, she would remove all resolves she had about him and follow him completely.

_No, she wasn't like that. _Tom quickly amended his thoughts, though the idea of Ginevra needing him, solely, pleased him. But realistically speaking, she would likely be happy to renounce her rank. Through her pursed lips Tom knew she disapproved of the ranking system altogether, and she felt uncomfortable with the power she held over other people's lives. Ginevra was more of a recluse. Oftentimes disappearing into isolation where no one could bother her, and she could bother no one.

But was she an outsider by choice? From the way she sometimes rambled to him about ideas that a wiser Slytherin would have kept unspoken - _love_, being one of her favorite topics, and _prejudice_, another - Tom thought she was somewhat desperate for company – desperate for an associate with whom she could relieve her burdens. That he, Tom, should be her choice to unload her thoughts –Tom, of whom she was so exceptionally wary – was a mark that testified to that foolishness.

And yet she could find others to associate with, if she wished. Ginevra was by no means incapable of being sociable. He witnessed her as an easy conversationalist when speaking to Zabini, a man who, like Tom, could not be disliked- by most people, at any rate. (Though, Tom wasn't sure at the moment how much _he_ liked Zabini.) Tom himself was sometimes impressed by her witticisms, despite his critical character. So why she chose to distance herself from the world she watched with guarded eyes, when she was so hungry for company, he didn't understand.

"I hear there's talk about dropping Ginevra to fifth year classes, because she can't handle her courseload."

"Isn't she taking NEWT-level classes? How did she manage to get placed into those classes?"

"Many people wonder that. Apparently once in Potions she mistook a bat wing for a goat bladder."

As the conversation moved toward frivolous rumors, Riddle lost interest and mentally tallied the number of rumors he knew to be untrue. Ginevra was simply not understood by the Hogwarts population at large, and the Hogwarts population did not care to approach her and learn about her. This was due in part to the reclusive aura she exuded and, in part to her tendency of hexing those that startled her. And so without allies she was regarded as a freak, unprotected during slow gossip days.

He was certain she knew about many of these rumors. Some of the more ludicrous ones he told her in the course of conversation, and Tom was continuously surprised how easily she took them. Even with bitter rumors that insulted and burned, she would smile contentedly – and sometimes laugh lightly – in an almost happy, nostalgic manner.

Had the rumor mill spouted such lies about him, he knew that there would be, at the least, one more student than normal in the Hospital Wing. He certainly wouldn't be amused enough to smile.

But if Ginevra was anything, it was full of surprises.

"Not to mention, she doesn't seem to respect the boundaries between Houses. And she tried out for the Quidditch team – Ginevra certainly doesn't respect the idea of tradition at all."

_That_ Tom agreed with – Ginevra not only refused to accept tradition, but she delighted in defying it. Or perhaps she was accustomed to a different kind of traditions, one of wherever she came from – and refused to adapt to their traditions.

The fact remained that Ginevra contradicted almost everything he stood for, understood, and believed in. But then, there was still that certain allure about her…

Tom looked up to see who it was that finally said accurately something about Ginevra, only to find (with some distaste) him to be Zabini.

"Flint did confide that he would not allow Ginevra to be a part of the team," Lestrainge said. "I, for one, think he has the right idea – Ginevra is not one of us, doesn't think like one of us. I'd wager that she doesn't even want to be one of us, and we, for the most part, don't want her to be a part of us. Who is she to hold a Council position, to hold power over us?"

Because she held a different mindset, Ginevra could offer ideas the rest of them never would have thought of. That was what she had to contribute –

Tom caught himself. That voice in his head sounded strangely like Ginevra's.

He pursed his lips, intrigued by the thought. It certainly wasn't because she was influencing him, that much he knew. Rather, it was as if he was starting to understand her world views, her playground rules.

When the Council voted a change in her rank – from Rank Five to Dreg – Tom did not protest. In fact, it satisfied him in some twisted way, knowing that none of the other Council members understood Ginevra quite like him – not even Zabini.

Even more, it pleased him to know that Ginevra would be even more socially isolated now.

He rather liked the idea of Ginevra sharing her time with no one but him.

…

"_Tempurator hoch!_"

It was pitiful, really, how her little cup of water wasn't even steaming. After dipping one finger into it, Ginny realized it wasn't warm at all. Just room temperature, purposely defying her with, she imagined, a self-congratulating smirk.

"_Tempurator hoch!_" she tried again, testing out different pronunciations, stressing different syllables. "_Tempura_tor _hoch! _Temp_urator hoch! Temp_ur_a_tor_ hoch!_" With a violent jab of her wand, she accidentally tipped the cup over, water leaking everywhere on her desk.

To her left, her blonde roommate – Malfoy was her name, she had earlier remembered – giggled. "Aww, Miss Ginevra can't evaporate her water properly," she said mockingly as she stirred her wand in her own cup, where the water was slowly crystallizing. "Had to empty it the Muggle way."

Ginny ignored her, cleaning up her spill and righting her cup. "_Augamenti_," she said, intending to refill her cup but ended up shattering it when a jet stream poured from her wand rather than the trickle she wanted.

Malfoy promptly dissolved into laughter as the professor came to inspect the results, frowning. "See me after class, Miss Ginevra."

Feeling her face heat up, Ginny nodded and kept her head down. "_Reparo_." The pieces obligingly flew back together. One of her favorites, it was one of the few spells Ginny never fumbled with. She used to break twigs and shatter plates on purpose when the war worsened just so she could repair them, watching the smithereens reunite in seamless glory. There was something therapeutic in knowing that she could fix _something_ when everything else in the world was falling apart.

Right now, she was tempted to shatter this cup on Malfoy's head with no intention of repairing it.

"You know, Ginevra," Malfoy said, "I heard the reason McGonagall's been hanging around is because of _you_." When Ginny didn't respond, she continued, "That you're being _tutored_ – and by a _Gryffindor_, no less! You must be desperate, aren't you?"

The bell rang, saving Ginny from losing her temper.

"You're shaming the Slytherin house, you know," Malfoy said in a low undertone. "You _will_ drop McGonagall, even if you are desperate. And that's an order – from your superior."

Ginevra took her time gathering her books as Malfoy swept her hair over her shoulder and left. Ginny had been taunted and ridiculed mercilessly since her rank fell, but Malfoy seemed to take personal delight in the drop and was the worst of them all.

Slowly, she dragged her books up to the front desk. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

Professor Cuttlebridge looked up from the essays he was grading with a heavy sigh. "Miss Ginevra, it pains me to say that your work has not been improving."

She winced at the blunt statement, hesitating before trying, "I know, sir, but I'm working on it – "

"If I don't see progress, I can't allow you to continue taking NEWT-level Charms," he said sharply. "Today's class was just a simple phase-changing spell, and if you can't even manage that… Have you found a tutor yet?"

"I – "

He heard her voice falter, "If you are not even making an effort to – "

"I have, sir," Ginny said quickly. She couldn't let him remove her from the class. Dropping Charms would mean more time for her to get lost in memories, and she needed the work to keep her distracted. "I found one only recently, though, and we haven't set up a schedule yet."

Cuttlebridge remained skeptical, tilting his chin down and peering at her over the frames of his glasses. "You have? Who?"

"Tom Riddle," she spewed out, though she internally winced. If Cuttlebridge approved…

He nodded, "Ah, I see. Mr. Riddle's a good lad. Well then, Miss Ginevra," he said, "I'm glad you found a tutor. I hope to see some progress in the future."

"Yes, sir."

Cuttlebridge approved.

This meant she needed to crawl back to Riddle and beg him to offer being her tutor once more.

Merlin, she hated this. Her pride was dying of shame.

"Have a good day, Miss Ginevra."

"You too," she muttered as she adjusted the strap of her bag, turning away to leave the classroom. She didn't know how she could ask Riddle to tutor her without losing all of her dignity, and she could already see that grating smirk of his that always emerged whenever he felt he had command. Just envisioning the slow half-smile was enough to frustrate her, her fingers itching to hex the next person who turned the corner of the corridor –

"Fancy meeting you here."

- who happened to be Zabini.

"Hey," Ginny said offhandedly.

Zabini peered down the corridor. "I suppose you just came from Charms?" When Ginny nodded mutely, he continued, "I was headed that way myself, to talk something over with Cuttlebridge, but it's nothing urgent. I'll walk with you, if you don't mind."

Zabini's company was probably the one which she minded least, around here. He was pleasant to talk to, with an easy-going attitude, and was the only one – excepting Riddle – who still spoke to her in the same manner as her Council days. And his snarky side comments made her smile.

Still, there was the side of him she met that first day in Transfiguration - where he had an indifferent and calculating attitude - _that_ bothered her. He was a Council member for a reason, and she felt uncomfortable talking to Zabini for too long – who knew what was running through his mind or how much more of her he was now dissecting?

They fell into step together, silent for a while, before Zabini spoke up. "I hear you rejected the position on the Quidditch team."

Ginny scoffed, "You know that Flint wouldn't have me anyways."

"Well," Zabini pointed out, "you _were_ offered a Chaser position, so that must count for something."

Shooting him a skeptical look, Ginny said, "We both know that me getting offered the position was purely because of politics. I don't know how Riddle talked Flint into giving me the position, or why – and I'm not sure I want to. But after seeing the climate I'd have to weather being a part of the Quidditch team…" She shook her head, "No thanks."

A small smirk toyed at the corner of Zabini's lips. "I would've imagined you to find the harsh climate to be part of the appeal. Taking up the challenge, showing everyone how it's done."

Maybe she was like that once, but now she didn't feel like being bothered with it. "I tried out for Quidditch because I wanted to be able to enjoy myself, not find another front to battle."

"Makes it look like you gave up, though," Zabini commented nonchalantly.

"I…" She hesitated. She knew those words were supposed to fire her up, and she was supposed to be defiant and pursue her position in the Quidditch team. Because that was who she _was_ – a hot-headed girl who acted according to her beliefs, regardless of consequences. She rode on the back of a thestral into battle when she was fourteen! She helped reinstate Dumbledore's Army! "Maybe I have given up."

His eyebrows rose at the admission. "That's not the Ginevra I know."

She wondered briefly what the Ginny he knew was like, and if he knew Ginny better than she, herself, did. After a moment of hesitation, she said with a wry grin, "It's not the Ginevra I know, either."

Ginny could feel his sharp gaze slicing through her. "It's because of the ranking system. I didn't think the fall would affect you this way as well."

She wanted to say that, no, it wasn't the ranking system, but rather that she never fully recovered from her war experiences. That it was too difficult to find the confidence to be passionate when there was no one there to support her. Not to mention she was using all of her energy fighting against Riddle's influences, fighting to change Riddle's ideas. She kept her tongue still, however, and asked, "It's happened to others?"

He looked at her, eyes somewhat wary. "Yes. The sudden destruction of someone's ego, the sudden loss of all company… It's a humbling drop."

"No friends among Slytherins, huh?" Ginny commented.

"Even those who actually like you cannot associate with you anymore for political reasons," Zabini said.

There was a slightly mournful note in his tone, and it reminded her of the one other time he had assumed that grave chord.

"Evalis. You said she was a Dreg."

"Mud Dreg," he corrected, hesitating before saying, "She was once at Degree One."

The guarded look that clouded his face told Ginny that he was not going to explain why Evalis dropped in rank. "You pity them."

He snapped his head around to look at her, "Pardon?"

"When you speak of others – others, who give up so much just to climb up one rung on the social ladder – you speak so indifferently. Like it's natural. But those who fail – you pity them." When Zabini didn't respond, she continued, "Because you're a sympathetic person at heart, and you worry for those who have nothing at all to cling to."

She remembered a voice during her imprisonment. In the agony of black, there was a masked woman on the other side of prison bars, descending from the hallways above to speak to her timidly. A Death Eater with regret, or a Death Eater's wife, or daughter, or someone simply caught in her own prison with no bars – regardless, she was a voice who offered Ginny something human to cling to for a few brief moments while she waited in her black hole.

The woman didn't visit often, but when she did… And then, she stopped coming altogether, for reasons unbeknownst to Ginny…

A silence settled between them, before Zabini said with a strange sort of calm, "You know, when someone makes observations about a person, you – generally speaking – keep them to yourself."

A blush rose to Ginny's cheeks as she realized what she had voiced might have angered him. And what then? Was she turning away the one person who treated her better than scum? "Right. Sorry." Then, smiling cheekily, she said, "Am I right?"

He scoffed. "Of course not. You make me sound almost like a Gryffindor."

"There's nothing wrong with sounding like a Gryffindor," Ginny said, instinctively defending her old House.

"Not if you're a Gryffindor," Zabini acknowledged. "In which case, there's a lot more wrong with you than _sounding_ like a Gryffindor – namely, actually _being_ a Gryffindor."

She felt a contented smile rise to her lips. House rivalry – one familiar thing she could cling to from a world fifty years away.

After Zabini left to meet Cuttlebridge, Ginny thought over what he had said.

_Makes it look like you gave up…_

She told Dumbledore that when she gave up, she'd be letting Voldemort win. And she hadn't given up yet – but maybe she just wasn't trying as hard as she should. And then there was the matter of herself – she wasn't the person she used to be.

If she wanted to change Tom Riddle, she needed to, first, change herself into somebody who _understood_ and _lived_ love and laughter, not someone who hid in library corners because she couldn't face the naivety she saw in corridors. And there was no need to dull her Gryffindor attributes simply to gain Riddle's attention – she knew she had it already, though why, she didn't know. It didn't matter. Right now, she needed to fix herself. She needed to stop living like a war victim and start living like a war survivor given a second chance.

Around the corner, a Hufflepuff juggling too many books dropped one tome to the ground. Stooping down to pick it up, Ginny offered, "Do you need help?"

The Hufflepuff regarded her with suspicion, his eyes darting quickly to her Slytherin badge. "N – no, I'm good."

"You sure?"

He nodded, and she carefully stacked the book on top of the pile that was already tipping precariously once more.

"Thanks," he said after a moment's hesitation.

Ginny smiled. "You're welcome."

…

Drop a review? :D


	10. Ch 9: Different

**Final Riddles**

Sorry for taking so long to get this out, guys. I've been having extreme difficulty with this chapter, trying to get the tone right, and trying to figure out how I want Ginny's character to develop. Huge thanks to Daughter of the Black for beta-ing through this. But now it's out… and filled with Riddle goodness :3 Yay?

Anyways, I've set up a new blog where I'll be posting updates of how things are coming along with writing, or previews of future chapters : intricacy(dot)webs(dot)com. We'll see how well this goes :3

Please do remember to tell me what you think of the chapter – critiques are always loved! And hey, while we're at it, maybe let me know where you'd like to see this go – I could always use some inspiration xDD

Thanks for reviewing the previous chapters, guys. Means the world to me. Have a hug, and enjoy this next chapter!

…

_We are defined by what is not_

_With respect to one, and what it's got_

…

**Chapter Nine: Different**

The room was quiet, in the hauntingly unnatural way that photographs were – that there should be sound, but was none. Evalis sat on her bed, crouching over the worn book that she always seemed to be reading, and Ginny was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed frame, eyes closed. She was tired, but she refused to let it get to her. She was done with being exhausted.

"I heard you weren't always like this."

Evalis glanced up briefly when Ginny spoke, only to duck down lower behind her tome.

"Is it too insensitive to ask what happened?"

When the silver-haired girl didn't respond, Ginny released a slow sigh. "I wasn't always like this, either," she finally said. "I used to be more… well, I was louder, I suppose. I don't really know what happened," Ginny shrugged. "I guess eventually, there was no one listening so I stopped talking." Jail cells were vacuums for sound. Her demonstrations and protestations were ignored. Considering the small rations she was given, Ginny had learned to conserve the limited energy she had by sitting in the dark in brooding silence.

"And after that," Ginny continued, "I never really got my voice back. I miss her, sort of. The old Ginny. She was much stronger. Much more… vivid, I guess you could call it."

Evalis' soft whisper broke Ginny's ramble, "You're not a typical Slytherin."

Ginny paused, a small smile settling over her lips. "I should hope not."

"You shouldn't… say so much about yourself," the girl's words were unevenly rushed then drawn out, as if she had words in her mouth eager to escape – but they were words she didn't want to let go. "And – and you shouldn't… shouldn't talk to me."

Ginny sat a little straighter, "Why not?"

Evalis' face whitened as her jaw clenched slightly, and she raised her book a little higher. "I'm a Mud Dreg," she said finally.

"That's not really a reason."

Evalis shook her head in contradiction.

"You shouldn't let yourself be defined by what others want," Ginny said. "You should let others see you as you define yourself."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes until Ginny collected herself and then collected her books. She had another tutoring session scheduled that she couldn't miss.

…

How Ginny had gotten Riddle to be her tutor was something she'd rather not think about. It went something like this – he found her, she shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, he questioned her, and she plunged in head first, bullshitting her way through. Long story short, she insulted him. They discussed her pitiful spellwork and she said that was the reason he couldn't tutor her – because she was a lost cause, and he wasn't good enough to fix a lost cause.

He had accepted the challenge, so she now had a tutor for Charms (and for Potions and for just about every other class but Transfiguration, for which she had McGonagall). It had been almost smooth, that bit of manipulation. _Almost_, except for the bit where Ginny _certain_ that he saw right through her act and was mocking her inwardly.

"You're late."

Ginny huffed as she dropped her bag beside him on the grass, checking the clock. "Sorr – I'm early by two minutes," she said incredulously, cutting her automatic apology off short.

"I was kept waiting, and therefore you are late," Riddle responded evenly, watching her as she unpacked her books.

What irritated Ginny most was that he spoke those words without laughter's lilt – like he actually believed them. And Merlin, she couldn't stand his arrogance when he paraded around his metaphorical Council badge that apparently authorized him as the center of society. Pausing, Ginny responded dryly, "I apologize to your overinflated ego," and resumed pulling out her texts.

Riddle scowled. "It would do you well to respect someone who's helping you, Ginevra," he said lightly.

There was something about the way Riddle spoke that always caught Ginny off guard. His tone of voice was always impeccable – always sounded exactly as he wanted it to sound. But nevertheless, she still felt an undercurrent of something jagged, a thorn beneath the petals... It was a texture that constantly reminded Ginny that he was different from everyone else, a texture reminiscent of a predator playing with its food. "I apologize to you as well," she said finally, and seated herself beside Riddle.

He didn't buy her apology for a moment, Ginny could tell. His jaw tightened fractionally, however, he remained silent on the topic and said instead simply, "I thought we'd review Charms first, so – "

"Actually," Ginny interrupted hastily, "I was hoping we could go over Potions today." A short silence fell, in which Riddle pursed his lips together and regarded Ginny with a slightly cool air. "I don't – "

"I was under the impression that you were learning about phase changes in Charms. _Which_ you were having difficulty with," Riddle cut in smoothly.

"I did – _am_ – I am having trouble with the phase changes, but Cuttlebridge took a detour in curriculum. Now we're covering appearance changes, w_hich_ I've been doing rather well in." Ginny could sense a growing irritation on Riddle's part, and despite the pride she felt for aggravating him, something in her chest shifted uneasily. She wasn't sure what he would do if she pushed him too far – and she still needed to remain in his good graces if she wanted to be able to mold him, as per her mission. Hastily, she tried to appease him with flattery. "Of course, Cuttlebridge thinks that the improvement is due solely to these tutoring sessions that we haven't had yet. When he passed me, he told me to, and I quote, 'tell Mr Riddle that he has outdone himself once again'."

It was true, that bit. Of course, at the time she had promised herself to never tell Riddle of that, partly out of fear that his ego would explode, and partly out of a grudge – that her own success had been attributed to someone else.

"And I suppose you corrected him."

"I didn't say anything."

Tom studied her for a moment – an intense moment, in which Ginny frantically tried to practice the little Occlumency she had so far managed to learn from Dumbledore, just in case – before he turned away and shook his head. "No. You have it wrong."

"What do you mean," Ginny demanded.

He waved his hand. "Your impression of Cuttlebridge – you have the pitch, but your words need to be more clipped." He paused, a corner of his lips tugging upward. On anyone else, Ginny would've said it was the beginning of a teasing smile – but this was Tom Riddle, and Tom Riddle did _not_ smile. "Try again," he beckoned.

"I – " Ginny faltered, surprised. Was it actually a teasing smile? Was this – was this Riddle, with a sense of humor? Where had that come from? She dearly wished to know what was going through his head – what he had determined when he studied her, and why he decided to completely change his demeanor.

Clearing her throat, Ginny decided to play along and tried again. "I see much improvement, Miss Ginevra. Tell Mr Riddle that he has outdone himself once again," she quoted in a mimicry of Cuttlebridge's voice before her facial expression soured as she shook her head. "This is stupid. You just wanted to hear yourself complimented again." At Riddle's smirk, her annoyance increased and she shoved a tome at his chest. "_Now_, are you going to tutor me in Potions, because I didn't ask you to tutor me in the fine art of imitating Cuttlebridge."

He pushed the book aside. "I'll tutor you in Charms today, since that's what I prepared for. Since you're already adept at glamour charms, we'll increase your repertoire of spells to include something more than just beauty spells."

Infuriated at his derisive implications, Ginny started heatedly, "On the contrary – " She frowned and once again cut herself short. It would do no good to inform him that she was only decent at glamour charms because she had used them so often in disguises. Redirecting her statement, Ginny finished her thought, "On the contrary, I'm adept at some simple hexes too. Would you like me to demonstrate those on you?"

He ignored her and carried on as if he hadn't heard at all, except for the corners of his lips, which twitched – as if he was amusing himself with her antics. Pride insulted, Ginny sniffed as Riddle spoke.

"We'll start with these phase changing spells that you're having difficulty with." Conjuring up a cup and filling it with water – in a controlled manner, not at all like the jet stream Ginny tended to produce – Riddle continued, "Begin with evaporation."

The goblet exchanged hands, and Ginny tentatively lifted her wand. "_Tempurator hoch_," she recited.

Nothing happened, as usual. Ginny looked up at Riddle in expectation, he shook his head. "Again."

"_Tempurator hoch_!" Her second try was met with the same results as the previous. "_Tempurator hoch!_"

When she paused, Riddle motioned in the air with his hand, "Keep going."

She repeated the spell multiple times until at last, she set her wand down with a sigh. "This isn't working. Are you going to fix what's wrong with me, or just watch me suffer?" McGonagall generally gave her pointers after attempting to cast the spell the very first time.

His eyes were hard and focused as he studied her for a moment longer. "Cast a simple spell that you've no problem with."

Ginny frowned. She didn't see where he was headed with this, but she complied regardless. Pointing her wand toward the lake, Ginny summoned a rock, presenting it when it easily flew into her hand.

"Do it again, but focus this time on how you feel. Did you feel a surge of power along your wand arm, or was it completely mindless?" he asked. Though he still tended to fall into his usual habit of ferreting information without posing inquiries, Riddle was, Ginny had noticed with some small amount of pride, more natural at asking her questions now than before.

"_Accio rock._" She paused, considering it, pursing her lips as she searched for words. "I never really thought about it," she admitted slowly. "There's no rush of power. It feels natural, I guess. I can feel the magic, but it's very faint – I wouldn't have noticed it if you hadn't told me to focus on it."

Riddle nodded as if he'd expected such and made move as if to speak, but Ginny continued in a slightly dazed tone, "At the same time… there's a sort of comfort hanging in there. A vague sort of familiarity, like greeting an old friend whose name you've forgotten. A happy nostalgia."

For a moment, Ginny thought she saw a crease line his forehead, but his expression was so soon smoothed that she doubted she'd seen it at all. "Good," he said. "Now, cast a hex at the tree over there - to your right - and tell me how you feel."

It was different this time, when she cast the Bat-Bogey. There was the unmistakable trail of magic that left her wand arm aflame - tingling with the excited whispers of adrenaline.

"Now," Riddle instructed, "try casting the phase-change spell again."

She did. "Nothing," there was none of the warmth, however little, she felt when casting the summoning charm.

"I thought so," he fixed his gaze on her, startling Ginny with the intensity of it. "There was nothing _particularly_ wrong with your annunciation or wand movement. The major problem is in your control of magic. When you hit the proper amount magic, it should feel natural – like how you felt when you summoned the stone. But, you have this tendency to let your magic explode forward – when you hexed the tree – or to smother the magic completely. When you tried to trim the broomstick for tryouts and ended up setting the lawn aflame, you were channeling too much energy. Fire is a common result of trying to force too much magic into a spell.

"First years generally have this problem. They've never had a wand before, and are only starting to learn to control their magic. It's also more difficult to control your magic when you're physically, emotionally, or mentally affected."

His words continued in an endless flow, washing over her and pulling at her skin with its ghostly tingles. There were so many words, with so much to say, so much about _her_… It was disquieting to hear Riddle dissect her so thoroughly – and still it was clear that he was withholding some information. Something in Ginny's chest shifted uneasily. Troubled, she wondered how much Riddle knew – how much of her weaknesses and strengths he had already charted out, how much of _her_ he already deciphered.

Riddle was still speaking, "Physically speaking, when you're weakened, sometimes the body tends to hold the magic back – to conserve energy. And mentally speaking, your mind can forget magic, or at least blockade it off if it associates magic with something your mind doesn't want to remember…"

She felt like an open book, naked under his scrutiny – and it frightened her. How much more would he learn about her over the course of the year? Would he manage to unravel her before she managed to untangle his character?

She barely noticed it when Riddle finished speaking. Shoving her fears aside, Ginny tossed out a frivolous comment with a teasing smile not quite as genuine as it would have been moments before, "So," Ginny started dryly, priding herself in how strong her voice was, "you're saying I have the magical aptitude of an incompetent first year."

"No," Riddle disagreed. "You have the magical aptitude of an extremely powerful witch, if you would only let your magic flow. If you would let me train you..."

_If you would let me train you_… Try as she might, she couldn't push away the discomfort that murmured in the pit of her stomach. For some reason, those words slightly alarmed her with each syllable graying her mood a little more. Uneasy, Ginny shot him a scrutinizing look, lips pursed together. But why would the question be anything but innocent? She came here so that he would teach her, train her – surely he was only reestablishing their goal? But still a foreboding storm churned inside of her.

"Yes," she finally allowed, drawing the word out warily.

He wasn't perturbed by her open trepidation and shifted closer to her, angling himself to face her directly. "In which case, you'll need to be completely open and honest with me," he continued earnestly. "I need to know what you're feeling, your thoughts – I need to know, so that I can guide you."

Her breath hitched. Perhaps it was merely her post-war paranoia, but she felt a trace of something sharper behind the sincerity of his tone, something heavier, something urgent –

She stopped herself. It wasn't post-war paranoia, it was Riddle, Tom Riddle. Riddle, who could manipulate angels into dancing with devils, to pirouette in a forbidden tryst. He always had an ulterior motive. Today, looking into her mind was written on his agenda – to peek into the memories he _couldn't_ see, the memories she wouldn't let him see.

He read the calculating look in her eyes, and she pulled her gaze away, turning her head downwards toward the grass. She didn't want him reading her so easily.

With a quiet sigh, Riddle ducked his head under to recapture her gaze and continued in a softer tone, "You're always so guarded, Ginevra. I don't know where you're from, nor will I ask – but if it has you casting hexes at anyone who approaches, if it has you so mistrustful of everything, it must be a horrible place."

His words were too sweet for Ginny's taste to. It left a somewhat bitter aftertaste, something sticky - something she wasn't quite sure she liked…

"But Hogwarts," Ridddle said, lifting himself slightly higher, "Hogwarts isn't that place. Hogwarts is beautiful, and you can relax here. The way you're living isn't a way of life, you _know_ that. I only want to help you, train you. But to do that, I need you to lower your defenses, so I can connect with you. _Understand_ you. I need you to let me in. Only after that can I completely recognize how to best help you."

And suddenly she placed that bitter taste – it was the taste of black ink, acidic against the muted flavor of smooth, crisp paper. Ginny shut her eyes, the churning in her stomach worsened. She didn't want to listen to his carefully crafted words.

"You're clinging onto a place you escaped. You need to let it go. Hogwarts is your new home – "

Slowly, an image flickered in from the black against her will, against her attempts to stop them. She saw Hogwarts blackened with ash, a great lake ignited, a cacophony of wails coming from every direction. She saw ghosts in the flames, shadow puppets on their pyre.

Ginny swallowed, trying to repress the thought that followed. _One of those shadow puppets was Lupin._

" – and it's one of the safest places – "

Walls crashed down. Its rubble soared into her back as she tumbled forward, winded. She tried to Apparate, but a shield slammed against her magic and for one sickening moment, she couldn't breathe. She blinked, and she was being corralled into a cage, pushed by bodies slick with sweat, and spells were descending from the sky like shooting stars –

" – for you to hold onto your worries – "

- a child, only eleven years old, a first year who was caught in the open, clutching his wand, as if magic could save him – could save them all – but they needed more than magic, they needed a miracle –

" – release – "

Breathe –

" – follow – "

"Stop," Ginny commanded roughly.

Riddle fell silent mid-word, looking at her with a bemused expression.

She stood up, arm outstretched and trembling, pointing an accusing finger at him, "Stop." Her mind was buzzing and spinning in circles, intoxicated by the adrenaline that came with the flashes of battle. She felt her lungs collapsing in on her, and she tried to push aside all thoughts for air to breathe. Because right now she was suffocating, and she couldn't _focus_, and she needed to relax – calm down – stop – control herself – _and breathe_…

With eyes now open, the grass and the trees and the lake slowly focused, though her ears were still ringing with the echo of screams. "I can't let you into my mind," her voice shook, and the words scratched her throat as she choked them out. "I can't."

Riddle didn't respond, and for a while they engaged in a silent battle of wills, holding each other's gaze – until at long last, when the fire blazing in her ears had calmed, Ginny sighed and ran a hand through her hair, collapsing back down on the ground beside him. Inhaling deeply, she let the crisp air of autumn turning to winter soothe her before she spoke.

"You say you won't ask me about where I came from," she said.

"No," Riddle agreed quietly.

Her eyes were focused out at the horizon, where she could see edge of the Forbidden Forest. "Why not?"

For a moment he paused, mulling over how to answer. "It would be intrusive."

"Huh," Ginny said with a short, humorless laugh. "If you're curious, you should ask."

Another silence settled as he attempted to decipher her motives behind the statements. "All right," Riddle said slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly with apprehension. "Where did you come from?"

She looked down. "Someplace else," Ginny answered at long last with some difficulty, returning her eyes onto Riddle. "A place even hope itself fled. Do you understand what it's like, when you have nothing? Nothing. To have no family, or friends. To have no home. To have no ambition, aspirations, hope. No love, no desires, not even your own magic. To not even have fear. You don't even fear death, because you're already living it. And do you know why your world is like this?"

As she paused, she noticed a beautiful quality to his eyes, something enticing behind the glassy blue - something beyond the normal mask of indifference. She found it calming to watch the turbulence as something blinked from behind a curtain of dark lashes. It was strange that she had never noticed how alluring his eyes were before.

In his silence, she continued, "Because once upon a time, there was a boy who thought he had nothing. He could have reached out and found so much, but instead he barricaded himself away and dreamt of having everything he didn't – of ruling the world that he thought had granted him nothing. In his ambition, he stretched magic – and life itself – beyond its limits and tore the world apart with its power. Destroyed." She choked on the last word.

Her eyes flickered closed as she shook her head, a sad smile haunting her lips. Instinctively, she reached out to grasp his hand, her hand hovering slightly in the air when she hesitated, remembering who he was. It was a habit of hers, reaching out for a small physical contact as a simple reminder that someone was there, alongside her. That she wasn't alone. When she had been alone during those years of isolation, she had reached out to the air and imagined her family. But now, there was someone –

- but that someone was _Riddle_. Riddle, who she'd never feel comfortable with. Riddle, who'd she'd never seek comfort from. Who she didn't _want_ to be comforted by.

Opening her eyes, she found him focusing on her suspended hand as it ghosted millimeters above grass. The air around her was thick, but the air in the cavity of her chest felt thicker. She couldn't. She couldn't just reach out and –

But at the same time, she wondered… What if…?

Tentatively, she bridged the void that stood between them and dusted her fingertips across the top of his hand, which tensed as they touched. His skin was cold, chilled by the frosty October air.

She felt the timbres of the surrounding atmosphere shift slightly at contact, but she pushed her awareness aside and struggled to remember what she'd been talking about. "Destroyed," she repeated finally, her voice almost fading into a whisper. "Completely consumed by one man's power. There's a reason why I fear power, you know."

Riddle was serious in his response. "But if you had power, you wouldn't need to be afraid in the first place. You could retaliate, fight back. You could _defeat_ your threats and fears."

"No," Ginny shook her head. "You can't simply _have_ power. Power isn't an object to claim possession over. I've seen what happens to wizards and witches who think they own power, and I've learned – a wizard doesn't control power. Power controls the wizard."

When he didn't respond, Ginny said, "If I'm to be open with you, you owe me the same favor. Honesty is a two-way street."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Ginny said, sitting up a little straighter, "what are you thinking? Tell me."

He raised his eyebrows at first, before nodding once and said, "That you're an exceptionally different individual."

She smiled and leaned back against the tree, silent for a moment before her gaze fell back to her fingers, still grazing slightly above his. Slowly, experimentally – with the air of an infant exploring the dexterity of their hands for the first time – she flattened her palm against his, which remained absolutely rigid. Against his hand, her hand looked small.

Looking up, she found Riddle studying her with furrowed brows. She laughed slightly. "Your hands are cold," she informed him.

"Yours are no better," he retorted, retracting his hand.

"Come on," she said, standing. "It's getting chilly out. Let's go to the kitchens for some warm butterbeer."

It was nice, she mused as she watched him follow suit. This…mission… It was nice to have real goals for a change, to have something more than nothing.

…

Herpderp. Drop a review? :3


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